


... and good at it

by lobstergirl



Series: Of Fur and Feathers [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Bonding of Mind and Spirit, M/M, Mycroft Plays the Cello, Mycroft doesn't mind letting Lestrade take the lead, Owlcroft, Werebird, attraction has nothing to do with gender, cruelty towards animals (mentioned), mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-03 04:58:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 80,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1732040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Urban fantasy AU in which Mycroft Holmes is quite literally above all but will come to accept and even enjoy having his feathers ruffled, and in which Greg Lestrade discovers hidden talents and finds out just what his division really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [...And good at it 为你而专](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458423) by [Ivylui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivylui/pseuds/Ivylui)



> This story is set in the same ‘verse as “Given Unsought is Better” and follows the same set of rules but while there are similarities (a black Cat will always be a black Cat), other things will be different. Do not mourn the Silver Fox; say hello to the Owl instead.

The large Eagle Owl was gliding below the tree tops, eyes fixed on something only his sharp owl eyes could see.  He navigated his way with swift adjustments of his wings and came to land on a thick branch where a chocolate brown Montagu’s Harrier sat waiting.  His head swivelled to meet her eyes and they engaged in a silent conversation while other animals made their way onto the small clearing.  Some stretched out in the open, making themselves comfortable on the soft grass, others kept to a more secluded spot, depending on their nature and their disposition.

When the group seemed complete, the Owl gave a shrill whistle, signalling for the meeting to start.

_::It has been brought to my attention that there have been discrepancies in what the Wildlife Crime Unit has been given to believe and what is said to be going on under their very noses.::_

His Mindspeech was precise and delivered with practised ease, and not a sound was heard but the soft rustle of the leaves.  He motioned for the Harrier to take over and she swiftly outlined the news she had compiled, her Mindvoice softer than his but just as clear.  Indignant hisses and chirping could be heard as she presented them with new and alarming details, but most invitees sat in worried silence.  After the brief introduction the panel discussion was opened and the Owl listened in deep concern as similar observations to those the Harrier had touched were reported and the rumours ceased to be mere rumours and turned into ugly facts.  It appeared he had his work carved out for him – as if his other responsibilities weren’t weighing down on him heavily enough.  He would have permitted himself the luxury of a deep sigh but a sigh was not within Owl vocabulary, and so he closed his eyelids for a moment and stretched the talons of his right foot.

When no more stories were brought forth, he briefly summed up what had been presented and cast one last stern glance at the motley audience assembled before him.

_::This needs to be spread within the community, and I am not referring to the wildlife branches alone. I want our domesticated contacts to be brought up to speed as well. Is that understood?::_

A few muttered protests were heard and he spread his wings to the full extent of their impressive six-and-a-half-foot span, glaring at those who seemed to disagree.

 _::I will not allow for sibling rivalry to happen, not on this matter.::_ He looked at a group of three Cats lying bonelessly in the centre of the clearing. _::We are not given a choice when we are born into this world, and the life of a Guardian is of no lesser value than that of Were and Shifter. Is that clear?::_

The largest of the Cats, an orange striped tom, flicked his ears but eventually lowered his slitted eyes in reluctant agreement.

 _::Much obliged.::_   The sarcasm transported well enough over Mindspeech. _::I hereby declare this meeting closed. Safe journey, everybody.::_

He pushed himself off the branch and with a few strokes of his powerful wings took to the evening sky.

He would have to keep an eye on that cat trio.  They had trouble written all over them and he made a mental note to himself to take the matter of possible surveillance up with his trusted associate.  Not tonight, though.  It had been a very long day, and the Owl was tired to the bones.  It smelled like rain but with any luck he would make it home just in time.

 

No such luck. As he made his way towards London, the sky turned blacker by the minute and the very moment he crossed the city’s boundaries, heavy drops started to fall.  He wouldn’t be able to fly for very much longer and being exposed to the rain would cause his body temperature to drop, so he started to circle the nearest rooftops, hoping for a nook that was big enough to offer him shelter.  _There_.  A small patch of green and what seemed to be an equally small tool shed looked promising so he landed right next to the shed but despite its odd shape and angles, it offered no dry corner for him to huddle into.  _Splendid_.  He eyed the small patio that was a bit too close to the humans’ living quarters for his comfort but it looked dry enough and beggars couldn’t be choosers.  Or in his case, a wet Owl should be grateful for whatever shelter was to be had.

With a wet _thud_ he landed on the rough wooden surface and hopped awkwardly into the farthest corner.  He swivelled his head to catch each and every sound but when there was no imminent danger, he fluffed his plumage in the hope of shaking off some of the wetness.  If only he hadn’t taken that detour then he could be enjoying the warmth and comfort of his home by now, and he was tired, so tired.  His sleeping lids closed over his eyes but he startled when the French door was opened and a man of medium height and robust built stepped outside. The Owl shrank into the dark corner, willing himself invisible, but the man detected him almost instantly.

“There you are,” he said cheerfully. “I thought I heard something.” He cocked his head and looked at the wet bird sitting huddled in its hiding place. “Look at you, all wet. That’s no good for an owl, you’ll catch cold and then you won’t make it home.” He approached the Owl, slowly and very carefully, and at arm’s length he crouched down and extended a hand.  The Owl hissed and opened his beak in warning but the man only chuckled.  “There there, poor little chap, all good. I’m offering warmth and a haven for the night if you will allow me.”

The Owl froze.  _Offering warmth and a haven_.  That was… an unusual choice of words.  He tilted his head and studied the man who sat and waited, hand still outstretched, dark eyes holding the Owl’s unblinking stare.  Warmth radiated from his body and shone in his eyes, too, and suddenly the Owl wanted nothing more than to not be alone, cold, wet or miserable.  He tentatively stretched his neck and touched his beak to the man’s fingers, not snapping but gently nibbling.  The man laughed.  It was a pleasant sound, his voice soft and a little husky.

“Come on then, let’s get you inside.” 

He pulled the sleeve of his grey jumper down and over his wrist for protection against the talons and offered his forearm to the Owl who hopped on without hesitation, carefully curling his feet around the man’s arm. 

The man got up with one swift movement and carried the large bird inside.


	2. Chapter 2

The persistent beeping of his alarm clock woke Lestrade from an unusually deep slumber.  He stretched and blinked into the rays of sunshine that filtered through the slits of his bedroom shutters.  He rolled over to lie on his back and idly scratched his chest.  It had been the strangest of dreams but the more he tried to remember what it had been about, the more it escaped him.  Something to do with an owl…

With a grunt he sat up.  The owl had been real, he remembered that now.  It had sought shelter from last night’s heavy rain and had come to land on his patio, and he had carried it inside so it could dry its feathers next to the heating.  A huge owl, too.  He wondered if it was still...  He got up and walked across the small hallway into his sitting room, trying to make as little noise as possible but when he peered around the corner, he found the room to be empty.  Although he had expected as much, had even left the doors open for the owl to leave whenever it was ready, he couldn’t help a sudden pang of disappointment.  There had been something oddly soothing about the large bird sitting quietly in the corner opposite his couch, imposing and dignified despite its wet plumage. 

With two old blankets that he had found in the depths of his closet he had made an impromptu nest on the floor and had gestured towards it invitingly.

“Make yourself at home, my feathered friend. I have work to do and will leave you in peace.”  With that, he had reached for the files he had brought with him and had sat down at the dining table.  Every now and then he had looked up and cast a glance in the owl’s direction, his gaze being met by an inscrutable stare out of huge blue eyes –

He froze.  Blue eyes.  The owl’s eyes had been of a greyish blue.  Why did that register as strange only now?  Owls didn’t have blue eyes.  Or did they?  He raked a hand through his hair and bent down to pick up a wing feather of a creamy brown, long and beautifully patterned with a dark tip.

_::Thank you.::_

The fragment of a memory wafted through his mind but disappeared as quickly as it had surfaced.

He shook his head with a short laugh.  No more Madeira for him before sleep.  _Shower and shave, Lestrade,_ he told himself sternly and went back into his bedroom, stripped and headed for the bathroom to clear his head under a cold shower.

******

“What’s that in your hand?”

Lestrade started, looked up and found himself subject to a particularly scrutinizing stare out of sharp green eyes.

“It’ a feather, Sherlock,” he said patiently.

“Yes, I see that.” Sherlock Holmes rose from his crouching position with fluid grace and with a few long strides came to stand right before Lestrade.  He snatched the feather out of his hand with lightning-quick speed.

“Oi!” Lestrade snapped, “Give it back! It’s not evidence and has nothing to do with the crime scene.”

Sherlock twisted the feather between his long fingers and gave Lestrade a speculative look. “Where did you get that?”

“I found it.”

“Where?”

“On my patio.”

“Just like that. On your patio.”

“Yes, Sherlock, just like that. Birds sometimes lose feathers.”

“This is a wing feather.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Of an owl.”

“Yeah and?” Lestrade held out his hand. “Give it back.”

Sherlock’s gaze shifted from the feather to Lestrade who raised his chin defiantly.  He hated it when these green laser beams zeroed in on him as if they were trying to look into his very soul.  He willed his mind to go blank and snapped his fingers. “Feather?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then shook his head as if he found something very hard to believe and with visible reluctance returned the feather to Lestrade who immediately put it into his inside pocket.  Sherlock opened his mouth as if to ask something but Lestrade cut him off before he had the chance to utter the first syllable. “Crime scene, Sherlock. What was it you wanted to tell us about these greenish fibre traces on the victim’s shirtsleeves?”

Sherlock stiffened but with a shrug and a dramatic swirl of his dark coat returned to where he had been sitting next to the victim.  Lestrade pushed all thoughts about big owls and beautiful feathers firmly into a corner of his mind and focussed on what the consulting detective chose to share with them.

 

The door to his office opened just as he gave a huge yawn and stretched his arms above his head, making his left shoulder give a soft plop.  He hastily covered his mouth and mumbled an apology, but Sally Donovan only grinned.

“It’s alright, sir, it’s your office and the door was closed. I could have knocked.”

“Well yeah, you could have. Still. No excuse for bad behaviour. What is it, Sally?”

She handed him a brown folder. “This just came in from the WCU. May I ask what’s so interesting about Bambi gone missing?”

“Because it’s not only Bambi but also Thumper and Faline who have gone missing, along with a few others. And I know it’s not exactly our division but I had a chat with PC Warwick from the WCU yesterday and he told they’re monitoring a sudden decline in the endangered species’ population, especially within the fur-bearing kind. In addition to that, three cats and two dogs have been found dead on their owners’ doorsteps, all in my neighbourhood. So I wondered if there’s a connection between all of that.” He looked up and upon meeting a blank stare said with a deep sigh, “And you have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Oh I understood you perfectly well, sir, Bambi and Thumper are missing and a few dogs, too. I just don’t see what it has to do with our current case.”

“Nothing. It has nothing to do with our current case. It’s just something that came up in a conversation and I got interested, ‘s all.” He checked the time. “Oh damn it, almost four and I haven’t had lunch yet. Fancy a bite?” he asked hopefully, but she shook her head.

“Sorry but I had a quick lunch a few hours ago. I’m hoping to be able to leave at a decent time today, too, because I’m invited to my cousin’s birthday party. I hate his wife but she makes a mean lasagne.”

Lestrade’s stomach growled at the mention of lasagne, as if it had ears of its own, and he rose. “Well, I guess it’ll be a sandwich in the park and the Bambi files then.”  There was a touch of regret in his voice.  He took his coat from its hanger by the door, grabbed the file and closed the door behind himself and Sally.

Starbucks' was relatively empty and he treated himself to an overpriced Panini and salad, and in addition bought a cappuccino, venti, extra shot.  He made his way to St James’s Park and sat down on a bench underneath an oak tree.  The rain had stopped during the early morning hours so the bench was dry and not too many drops fell down on him from the old tree’s branches, and he leaned against the wooden back, crossed his legs, opened the file and started to read.

He was halfway into the file when a chirping sound to his left made him look down.  A squirrel had come to stand on its hind legs and was looking at him expectantly.  With a chuckle, he reached into his pocket and fished out a small bag of nuts.

“You guys are never far away, right?” He held out his hand, offering the nut to the small creature who took it from him with nimble claws but instead of running away, it stayed where it was.  As he continued to read, three more squirrels appeared in the hope for an afternoon snack, and he absent-mindedly reached into the small bag to offer each of them a nut.  A spotted woodpecker sailed down from where it had been eyeing the free food being handed out and came to sit on the back rest.  Lestrade sighed but reached into his other pocket and produced a handful of dried berries.

“There you go. I don’t have much more with me today so don’t eat it up all at once and blame it on me when there’s nothing left. And now stop harassing me. I was actually hoping to get some reading done during my break.”

The woodpecker cocked its head and looked at him out of its round black eyes, then brought its beak to Lestrade’s hand and gingerly took three berries.  He chuckled and placed the rest on the bench.

“You’re welcome.”

He leafed through the photos and frowned.  It seemed not all animals were taken away but some were left behind, brutally slaughtered, their furs and pelts hanging in shreds from their battered bodies and Lestrade winced. He had to take a deep breath before he could force himself too keep reading.

When a shadow fell across the report, he looked up and saw a tall man who had come to stand before him and was looking down at him with a polite smile.

“Mr Holmes,” he said, surprised. “Good afternoon! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I should hope not, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft Holmes replied with faint amusement in his voice. “I make it my business to appear unannounced. May I sit?”

“Why, yes, certainly,” Lestrade took the empty lunch bag from where he had placed it and balled it up neatly before putting it between his feet. “Please.”

“Thank you.”

Mycroft cast a critical glance over the surface and when he found it to be reasonably clean, he sat down and crossed his legs at the ankles.

“Checking into wildlife crime, Inspector? Last time we spoke you were with homicide. Or has there been an organisational merging?”

“No, I’m still with homicide. Is it so strange that I might want to see beyond my own nose?” It came out sharper than he had intended.

“Not at all. Apologies. I did not wish to appear to be patronizing,” Mycroft said a little stiffly.

“’s alright. It’s just that you’re the second one to react funny that I take an interest in something that has nothing to do with your traditional murder case.” He offered a small apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Sorry.”

Mycroft hummed. “And you were hoping for a few moments of peace and quiet.”

“I was, yeah.”

“Mhm.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, then Mycroft casually remarked, “So, do you come here often?” The moment Lestrade snorted he realized what he had just said and he cleared his throat, embarrassed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I hope not.” There was barely suppressed laughter in Lestrade’s voice and despite his embarrassment, Mycroft felt the corners of his mouth twitch in response.

“What I meant to say was, I come here a lot during lunch or whenever I have a few moments to myself but I can’t recall ever seeing you here.”

“Well, it’s a big park and I guess your lunch hours are about as regular as mine.”

“That is probably correct. Still, it’s a nice place to relax, isn’t it.”

“It is.” The rustle of paper made him look down just in time to catch one of the squirrels trying its luck with the lunch bag. “Hey you, get away from there. That stuff’s no good for you.” He reached into his pocket once more and bent forward, hand outstretched. “Here you are. That’s better,” he said with a smile when the nut was taken from his hands.  When he straightened up, Mycroft was looking at him with mild interest.

“You seem rather fond of small animals, Inspector. I was not aware of that.”

“Oh, they’re great. I like all kinds of animals.” Lestrade shrugged. “For a while I considered joining the K-9 unit but then decided against it.”

“What made you change your mind?”

Lestrade mulled over the reply for a moment and then said, “I don’t think I could bear losing a four-legged partner.”

“As opposed to losing a two-legged one?” Mycroft cocked an eyebrow.

“No, of course not. That came out all wrong. Let me try again. An animal will give itself to you, fully trusting with all of its being. You send a dog to his death and he will go, not questioning your judgment for a second.” He made a helpless gesture. “I don’t think I could handle that sort of responsibility.”

“But an animal will never be your equal,” Mycroft pointed out.

“What makes you say that? How do you know? Animals aren’t stupid just because they can’t verbally communicate with us. They are intelligent in ways we don’t understand and their ways of communication are so much more intricate than ours. There’s a lot we could learn from them if we only watched and listened.”

“Oh no!” Mycroft looked at him with faint alarm. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those who chain themselves to signposts to draw the public’s attention to toad migration.”

“What?” Lestrade asked, puzzled, but then started laughing. “No. I’m not. I mean, toads are cool but a line must be drawn somewhere. Besides, I don’t fancy being in chains.”

“Glad to hear that. You had me worried there for a moment.”

“About what? About me being a radical animal rights protector or about me enjoying being tied up?”

“Both, come to think of it. Although the latter belongs to your private life and is thus none of my business.”

“And yet the idea had you worried for a moment.” He put some more dried berries into the palm of his hand and offered it to the woodpecker who sat patiently on the armrest.  One of the bolder squirrels scooted down from a lower branch and snatched some away from under the bird’s beak.

Mycroft watched him closely, reached for the small bag with the remaining nuts and peered inside.  With a strange undertone he said, “I am amazed at your choice of afternoon tea companions.”

“Me too. Mycroft Holmes and a bunch of squirrels. Go figure.”

Mycroft smiled. “It seems you have a hand for shy creatures.”

“Are you a shy creature?” Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

“That’s not what I meant," Mycroft said again and seemed a bit irritated about having to explain himself for the second time.

“What did you mean, then?”

“These are red squirrels, Inspector. Unlike their annoying grey cousins, they are shy and nervous. And you have a woodpecker sitting on your wrist, taking dried berries from out of your hand.”

“Yeah and? They have nothing to fear from me. Besides, this little fellow over there,” he nodded towards Mycroft’s end of the bench, “doesn’t seem too afraid of you either.”

Mycroft turned his head to look at the squirrel sitting on the armrest at his side of the bench with its bushy tail neatly pulled up against its back, for all the world looking like a faithful servant waiting for his liege to grant an audience. “What do you want?” he asked sternly, and to Lestrade’s surprise the small animal did not run away but chirped softly and… made a bow?  Lestrade watched as Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and focussed on the squirrel, much as Sherlock had stared at him earlier that day.  The squirrel sat up, its tail swishing nervously about but it held Mycroft’s gaze for a few seconds.  Then he broke eye contact and offered a nut he had dug out of the small bag.  It was snatched out of his hand and the squirrel took off, followed by the others.  The woodpecker cocked its head and with a few swift beats of its wings made its way back to a group of trees where it was greeted by loud chacking of other birds.

“That was strange,” Lestrade remarked. “Did that squirrel actually bow to you?”

“Please,” Mycroft made a sound that on any other person would have sounded like a snort. “While I will not argue about animalistic intelligence with their fierce protector, I will not accept theories on courteous etiquette amongst small rodents.”

Lestrade laughed. “You’re right. I’m seeing things.” He checked the time. “I better get back to my paperwork if I want to get out before it gets dark.”

“Plans for tonight?”

“Well no, not really. Nothing exciting, anyway. I'd like to go running tonight. It’s supposed to remain dry for the rest of day and it would be nice to return home and not look like I’ve been in a mud-wrestling match.”

“Dear me, what a lovely picture you paint of your private life. Chains and mud-wrestling. Maybe I should drop the Commissioner a hint?”

“Please don’t. You’d be amazed at how boring my private life actually is and I would much appreciate it to remain that way. Well, with one exception, maybe.”

“Meaning?”

“Now that,” Lestrade cocked a dark eyebrow, “really is none of your business.”

Mycroft tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Very well.” He rose and smoothed his waistcoat that didn’t need smoothing, in Lestrade’s opinion, and buttoned up his jacket.  Lestrade picked up the empty lunch bag and got up from the bench as well.  After a brief moment of awkward silence, Mycroft held out his hand. “Have a nice evening, Inspector, and a pleasant run. Maybe we can catch up some other time, yes?”

Lestrade accepted his hand. “That would be nice,” he heard himself say. “Maybe meet for lunch where there are no small furry animals around?”

“I’m sure I can come up with something,” Mycroft replied with a smile. “I’ll be in touch.”  He made a small polite bow and sauntered off.

Lestrade stared after him.  _Maybe meet for lunch?_   What was he thinking?  Wasn’t one Holmes enough?  Did he have to invite the older brother into his life as well?  He disposed of the empty paper bags and went back to his office in the hope of getting the remaining paper work off his desk by the end of the day.

 

It felt good to run, to stretch his legs after being crammed behind his desk almost all afternoon.  Even more so because the sun was still shining.  Granted, it was getting dark, but with any luck he would have another thirty to forty-five minutes and he intended to make the most of them.  Lestrade let his mind wander as he ran along his favourite path, enjoying the clean spring air and the relative quiet his route offered.  Bits and pieces of the day floated through his mind and he paused when he realized his thoughts were revolving around the Holmes brothers.  Why had Sherlock been so intent on finding out about the owl feather?  Sherlock never showed any interest in his private life, hell, he didn’t even bother to remember his first name.  And why had Mycroft been so chatty?  Although he did have a tendency to show up unannounced, he usually kept their conversations brief and business-like, revolving around Sherlock, his well-being and his work.  Lestrade finished his stretching move and continued running.  Come to think of it, there had been one dinner with Mycroft Holmes where the conversation had started with Sherlock’s latest temper tantrum but had somehow shifted to movies and music, and that had been surprisingly enjoyable.  Mycroft had displayed an unexpected sense of humour and they had chatted amicably about everything from the early Doctor Who series to the latest Bond movie, so maybe he wasn’t that aloof after all.

He arrived at his doorstep just after sunset and immediately went for a shower, letting the warm water rinse off the workday.  With a towel around his hips he padded into his sitting room, opened the French door leading to the patio and turned around to walk into the bedroom to change into pyjama bottoms and t-shirt when a soft _thump_ made him stop and look over his shoulder.

“Well hello there,” he said, surprised. “What brings you here?”

The large owl tilted its head as if to give him a quick once-over.

“Don’t stare, that’s rude. I just had a shower and you should be grateful I remembered to wrap a towel around myself. Wanna come inside or would you rather stay out there?”

The bird fluffed its feathers and then spread its wings.  Its wingspan was enormous and Lestrade laughed. “You do not want to do this inside. My sitting room is too small for that and I would hate to pick up behind you.” He held out his naked forearm to the bird. “Can you step on without tearing my skin to pieces?” If he hadn’t known any better he would have sworn the owl had just given him a Look.  It hopped off the ledge and closed its zygodactyl feet carefully around his arm to get a firm grip, sharp claws digging into his naked skin but not drawing any blood.

He carried it inside and stood in the middle of his sitting room, looking around.

“Where do I put you? Where do you want to sit? Want me to get the blankets for you or would you rather sit on the sofa?” He laughed softly. “Listen to me, talking to an owl. Mycroft Holmes must never find out, or he will speak to the Commissioner after all. Tell you what,” he told the owl, “how about I put you on the back of my sofa while I get into my pyjamas and fetch your blankets. Then you decide where you want to sit, and I will stop talking to you as if you can understand what I say.”

The owl blinked its eyes so he lowered his arm for the bird to hop onto the couch.  Then it dawned on him that the huge round eyes were indeed blue and not of the usual orange-yellowish colour and he bent forward to take a closer look.  The owl stared back at him and tilted its head again.

“I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “Blue and grey. That’s odd.” He tilted his head, too, and smiled. “But I like it.”  He straightened again. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He quickly walked into his bedroom, put on his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt but then changed his mind and picked a longsleeve instead.  With the blankets tucked under his arm he went into the kitchen to get a beer out of the fridge, then returned to the sitting room. 

The owl had jumped down from the back of the sofa and was now perched on the armrest, preening its feathers.

“Hey,” he said good-naturedly, “wait until I got the blanket ready, yeah? I really don’t want to fall asleep on here with a bunch of fluffy feathers in my nose.”

This time he was sure about getting a Look but the owl obediently hopped back onto the backrest until he had spread the blankets over almost a third of the couch.  He settled down into his corner of the couch, reached for the remote control and started flipping through the channels.

“So many channels, so little on. Nope. Nope. Serial killer? Blood spatter pattern? Hell no, got that each day. Midwives? Don’t think so. Jane Austen? God no.” A soft hoot made him turn his head. “What? You wanna see a bunch of women in silly hats swooning over men with stupid neckties? You serious?” The owl blinked its eyes and he switched back, laughing. “That’s it, Lestrade, you need a life. You let an owl choose the movie. Splendid.”

He placed the remote control on the coffee table, put his feet up and took a gulp from his beer bottle.  With a sigh he slid down a little and looked at his feathered guest whose big round eyes were fixed on the television screen.  He slowly and carefully reached out to the owl.  Its head swivelled around and he froze.

“I’m sorry. I just… uhm, I just wondered if I might… touch you?”

The blue-and-grey eyes bore into him but unlike earlier that day when Sherlock Holmes had given him one of his uncanny stares, he did not let his mind go blank.  Instead, he held the bird’s gaze and tried to transport his admiration for its beauty and his honest wish to touch the sleek feathers.  Touch.  Nothing more, nothing less.  To his surprise, the bird came closer and stretched its head forward.  He gingerly touched its facial feathers and scratched the top of its head.  The owl flattened its ear tufts and slowly closed its eyes.  Thus encouraged, he explored further, stroking the sleek wings, caressing the soft front.

“That almost feels like fur,” he said admiringly. “I didn’t know owls were that soft. All these fluffy feathers make you look bigger than you are.”  He scratched the owl’s chest with his index finger and the bird all but leaned into his touch which made him laugh softly. “You are a big softie, that’s what you are. All big and scary on the outside, but deep inside you want to be cuddled like everyone else.”  Huge blue eyes opened to give him another Look, and he smiled.

“Let’s make a deal. I won’t tell anybody you’re a cuddler, and you won’t tell anybody I spend my evenings watching Jane Austen with an owl. Alright?”

He leaned back into the cushions, crossed his legs at the ankles and resumed the gentle scratching with slow and steady movements.  The owl came a bit closer and when they were halfway into the film, Lestrade noticed it had pulled up one of its feet in a gesture of trust and comfort and he felt almost sorry when the end titles came on, marking the end of their odd companionship.

With a sigh full of regret, he said, “Much as I hate it, but I must go to bed now. It’s been a long day, and if Sherlock bloody Holmes is right, and he usually is, then tomorrow will be even longer.”  He got up from the couch, stretched and yawned, then bent down to caress the soft feathers one last time.

“Good night then, my strange friend. It’s been a pleasure, and the film was better than I thought. Know that you are welcome to come back any time. From now on I will leave the back door open so you can come and go as you please, at least while I’m at home. When I’m gone, please understand the doors must remain closed.”

The owl blinked as if in agreement, and he switched the lights off on his way out.

As he drifted off into sleep, the last thing his conscious mind registered was a soft _thud_ from the direction of the window and an owl-shaped shadow perched on the stool standing beneath it.  With a smile, he pulled his blanket up and fell asleep.

Only his subconscious mind registered the soft mental caresses, like feathers on naked skin, murmured words of appreciation and gratitude that would make Lestrade wake up with an indistinct feeling of happiness flooding his veins.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft Holmes didn’t contact him over the course of the following two weeks but Lestrade was too busy to notice, not only because of his workload but because the younger Holmes was once more proving to be a handful.  Had Lestrade been a more religiously inclined man, he would have prayed to whoever was willing to listen to please send somebody – anybody – to keep the consulting detective’s mercurial intellect busy enough to stay out of trouble. But he was a police officer with a more down-to-earth approach to life and so he kept pushing cold case files his way, fiercely hoping they would do the trick.

It took Sherlock all but three days to make the connection between the green fibres on the murder victim’s shirt and a cashmere mix imported from India that had been the epitome of stylishness some three years ago.  An ambitious seamstress with a grudge and the firm conviction that her talent never got the recognition it deserved, and Lestrade was stuck at his office, going through paperwork and scrawling his signature on piles of reports and statements while listening to Sherlock rant on about missing the obvious and about seeing but not observing.

When he was done scrawling and listening, he offered Sherlock a ride home to his small flat that was located in a less than favourable part of the city.  To his surprise, the offer was accepted graciously and they rode in silence, which surprised him even more.  The shabby apartment building where Sherlock had taken up residence came into view, Lestrade set the blinker and pulled up to park in second row right next to the front door and watched Sherlock fish for his keys in the pockets of his Belstaff.

“Why do you still live here?”

“Because I can come and go as I please.”

“You can come and go as you please in nicer neighbourhoods, too,” Lestrade pointed out.

“That might be so, but this is what I can afford so this is where I live.”

“Have you ever considered …” He had intended to say, ‘asking your brother for help’ but the sight of Sherlock immediately gritting his teeth quickly made him alter the second half of his question, “…a flatshare?”

Sherlock turned to him with an incredulous look on his face. “Flatshare?”

“Yes, Sherlock. It’s when two or more people share a flat so they can live in a nice neighbourhood without financially crippling themselves.”

“I know what a flatshare is,” Sherlock said testily.

“Well? Wouldn’t that be an option?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why? It’s not like you have to accommodate a large family.”

“Who’d want me as a flatmate?”

“You’d be surprised. Give it a think, will you? I know you’re a big boy and all but I can’t lie to you and say I feel comfortable knowing you live in such a dump.”

Sherlock made a rude noise but didn’t say anything.  He got out of the car, whipped out his mobile phone and started typing a message with a speed that made Lestrade go cross-eyed each time he witnessed the dance of nimble fingers across tiny keys from up close.

“Bye Sherlock,” he called but the passenger door slammed shut in his face and Sherlock was already on his way up the stairs.  Lestrade shook his head, grinning, and made a smooth but illegal U-turn that would save him a few minutes on his way back to the office.  The fact that he had just dropped Sherlock Holmes off sadly did not mean his working day was over, too.

The sight of DCI Shielding waiting for him upon his return was never a good thing, and this time didn’t prove any different.

“DI Dimmock has come down with the measles and as I’ve been reliably informed you have just closed a case. I’m sorry to say but it seems you’re the only one who has capacity to take over, Lestrade.”

“The measles? Isn't he a bit old for that?”

“I have no idea. Maybe he never got vaccinated, who knows. Fact is, he’s called in sick and can’t work on his case right now.” He reached into his briefcase and handed a slim folder to Lestrade. “Investigation has just started which is both good and bad. Good, because you won’t have to wade through piles of reports, bad, because you’ll have to bear the brunt of the work.”

Lestrade groaned but accepted the file. “Well, good thing I don’t have any plans for tonight, right?”

“Yeah, well, sorry about that but thanks.” Shielding nodded and left Lestrade’s office, leaving the door open.

With a sigh, Lestrade sank down on his chair and started leafing through the file which was indeed meagre but provided enough data for him to recognize the extent of the double homicide that had started out looking like an insurance fraud but now appeared to have its roots elsewhere.

“You better be covered in blistering red spots when I come by your place tomorrow,” he muttered under his breath.

 

No matter how busy his working days were and no matter at what ungodly hour he got home, he always found his owl waiting for him, sitting patiently on the patio ledge or on his chair, and that quickly became the highlight of his days.

He would open the door for the owl to come inside whenever it chose to, went to take a shower and change into tracksuit or pyjama bottoms and t-shirt, grab the newspaper or the latest reports he had brought with him, and when weather permitted, he sat outside on his patio. 

One evening he caught himself pacing the wooden boards, outlining the case he was working on and letting off steam about how he got stuck but wanted to try and figure things out without involving Sherlock Holmes, repeatedly searching eye contact with the owl as if expecting a reply, or a piece of advice.  He stopped dead when he realized what he was doing and raked a hand through his hair, half laughing, half groaning.  The owl inched closer from where it perched on the armrest of the oak Adirondack, craned its neck forward as if expecting to be scratched and Lestrade obliged without thinking.  He liked touching the soft feathers and he was secretly thrilled that an animal as wary as an owl would allow him to touch and caress.

“Look at the two of us,” he sighed, “we’re quite a pair, aren’t we? It’s sad enough I don’t have a life, but don’t you have anything better to do? Catch mice or hunt squirrels? Owl business to tend to? Don’t you have a lady owl waiting for you?” He gently touched the ear tufts and the owl closed its eyes in bliss. “You’re so soft. I like that. All fluffy. Should I call you Fluffy? I mean, you’ve been here pretty much every night now, don’t you think it’s about time I gave you a name?”

Large round eyes opened and the owl tilted its head.

“What do you think? Fluffy?”

The owl opened its beak and hissed.

“You don’t approve, huh?” He laughed. “You’re probably right. That’s a name for a small white dog. Mhm.” He pursed his lips and looked into the owl’s stern face, then started grinning. “I got it. Mike. I’m gonna call you Mike. You remind me of someone I know, and a few seconds ago you looked just like him. So. Mike it is, and I hope you agree.”

The owl – Mike – clicked its beak as if to think.

_::It’ll do.::_

“Fine. Pleased to meet you, Mike.”

_::And you, Gregory.::_

Lestrade took a gulp from his bottle, then choked and started coughing violently.

“Did you just talk to me?” he finally managed.  Mike looked at him and swivelled his head around as if to check whether Lestrade was talking to someone behind him.  Still coughing, Lestrade slapped his hand against his chest. “Damn. I’m pathetic. I mean, look at me.”  He sat down heavily and pulled the foot stool up. “I’m pathetic,” he repeated. “I’m in my forties, reasonably good at my job, divorce over and done with, no liabilities. And yet, here I am.” With gentle fingers, he softly pulled Mike’s eartufts. “So lonely that I’m talking to an owl and thinking it talks back.” He watched as the bird climbed down from the armrest and carefully made its way along his leg until it came to sit on his upper thigh. Lestrade ran his fingers along its long legs and sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s anything wrong with me.”

And so they sat, man and owl, and stared into the night.

 

_::Get up. Gregory. Get up, please.::_

The voice sounded urgent and Lestrade slowly blinked from sleep into awareness.  It was still dark outside and he felt a little disoriented.  Four-thirty.  _What the hell?_   He sat up and rubbed his face.

“Who’s there?”

_::Get up, get dressed, please, Gregory.::_

“What is this? Who are you?”

_::Please, hurry. Take your phone and your gun, go outside. Quickly.”_

The voice seemed to come from inside his head, and this had better be a dream.  Had to be.  Either that or he was going mad.  So if this was a dream, might just as well do as the voice asked.  He got up, got his Glock from where it was safely locked away, grabbed his jeans, ran across his hallway into the bathroom to quickly use the toilet and changed from pyjama bottoms into jeans, going commando which he hated but he didn’t want to run back for a pair of briefs.  With bare feet he slipped on his old trainers that stood next to the door, reached for his fleece, snatched the car keys off their hook and headed for his car that was parked a few metres down the street.

“Where are you?” He looked around. “What do I do now?”

_::Get into your car and follow me.::_

“What?”

_::Do as I say.::_

The voice sounded impatient so he hurried to obey.  The moment he started the car and pulled out on to the street, the silhouette of a large bird came swooping down from wherever it had been sitting and started leading the way.  Lestrade started and hit the brakes to stare incredulously ahead.

“Mike?”

_::Yes. Follow me.::_

He drove a little over half an hour in a south-western direction, having no clue what was going on.

“Why are you taking me into Richmond Park?”

_::You’ll see. Keep driving.::_

“It’s closed. There’ll be guards.”

_::Taken care of. Trust me.::_

He drove on a narrow path that was probably used by the park’s employees, gardeners and animal keepers until the owl landed on a tree trunk right next to a small opening in one of the hedges.

_::Leave your car here. Take your gun, just in case. Do you have a WCU contact you can call?::_

“Yeah, Constable Warwick.”

_::Edgar Warwick?::_

“Eddie, yeah, I think that’s him.”

_::Shifter. Excellent. Follow me.::_

Lestrade squeezed through the opening and ran after Mike who glided soundlessly across the path.  He hoped being silent was not part of the plan because he was about as silent as a plowhorse, stumbling a few times along the way and cursing himself for not wearing socks.

_::Stop.::_

Panting heavily, he stopped and bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath.  Going for a leisurely run after work was something else entirely.  He would have to quit smoking once and for all if he wanted to keep up with Mike.

_::See that clearing over there? I will meet you there.::_

Still panting, he nodded to signal his agreement and made his way towards the clearing, this time as carefully and as silently as he could.  His breath became more even and his eyes had adjusted to the dark, and surprisingly well so.  He’d had no idea his night vision was that good.  There was an odd sensation in his head and he shook it a few times.  It felt like a headache but without the pain.  Which didn’t make sense at all.

Something like a soft weeping sound reached his ears and he froze.  He narrowed his eyes and peered into the clearing.  Clouds were obstructing the moon’s soft light and all Lestrade could make out were a few lumps lying motionless on the ground.  His breath hitched in presentiment of something terrible and his heart started beating faster.

_::The clearing is safe. Come here.::_

Despite the reassurance, he reached for his Glock and released the safety.  With each hesitant step, the crying became more heart-breaking and he was able to identify two different voices, none of which sounded human, but that didn’t make it any less painful.  The moment he stepped onto the clearing the cloud that had shrouded the moon glided by and silvery light flooded a scene every bit as horrible as some of the worst crime scenes he had ever come across.  He had just enough strength left to secure his gun and put it back into its holster before his knees gave out and he sank to the ground.

Before him, dozens of animals lay slaughtered.  Red deer, fallow deer – slender legs broken, graceful throats cut.  Foxes – soft fur soiled, tails partially or completely ripped off.  Rabbits – squashed.  Birds – necks turned, wings broken.  Something moved to his right and he scrambled to his feet, walking over to where he thought he had seen the movement, careful not to tread on a cadaver, careful not to contaminate the crime scene, for that’s what it was.  A crime scene.  There.  A large dog lay curled around what seemed to be a fox cub, and Lestrade immediately crouched down, not wanting to appear a menace.  He willed his mind to calm down and reached out his hand, murmuring nonsensical phrases of comfort in a soft voice and the dog, a Rottweiler, he realized, started wagging its tail weakly.  He dropped to his knees and let the dog sniff his hands.  A wet tongue started licking his palms and an equally wet nose was pressed against his wrist as the cub struggled to stand.

“I need to touch you to see how badly you’re hurt,” he told the dog that looked at him out of trusting eyes.  With gentle hands he probed the Rottweiler’s battered body and even without veterinary training he knew nothing short of a miracle would be needed to save it.  The small fox stood on unsteady legs, its body quivering, its fur matted with blood and one of its big ears hung torn.  It whimpered and pressed its small form against Lestrade’s legs, and he lifted it up and cradled it in his arms without thinking.  With his free hand he reached for his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Warwick’s number.  The call was connected and Warwick’s voice came on, thick with sleep.

“Yeah?”

“Warwick?”

“Yeah?”

“DI Lestrade. Sorry to do this to you but you have to get a team out to Richmond Park immediately.”

“What?” A yawn was heard. “What’re you talking about?”

“Richmond Park. Team. Now.” The cub whimpered again and Lestrade heard a hissing sound over the phone.

“What was that?”

“That was a baby fox. Prepare yourself, Warwick, this is one of the most horrible things I’ve seen in a while. I’m gonna send you my coordinates. Hurry.” 

When the coordinates were sent – it took him a while to find the right scroll-down menu – he tucked the phone back into his back pocket and sat down heavily next to the Rottweiler, cradling the whimpering fox to his chest with one hand and stroking the dog’s large head with the other, scratching behind its ears and when he moved his hand down to scratch between the shoulder blades, he noticed the leather collar.  He felt for the tag and found it but couldn’t read it despite the moonlight.

 _::She’s a police dog.::_ Mike came to sit next to him and craned his head to look at the badge.

“What?”  He reached for his mobile again and re-dialled Warwick’s number. “Warwick, Lestrade again. Listen, try if you can get someone from K-9 to come with you. We have a wounded police dog here. What? – Dunno, can’t read it. – Yeah, I can make out the badge for sure. – Rottweiler, female. Badly wounded. I mean, really badly wounded. She might not make it. – Yeah, see you.”  He turned to look at Mike whose head swivelled as if he wanted to take in each and every grisly detail. “I don’t understand. How is that possible? In the middle of London, in one of the Royal Parks?”

_::You will come to understand soon. I must go now, Gregory, but I’ll be in touch.::_

With a few strides of his long legs, Mike put a distance between them and pushed himself into the air, leaving Lestrade behind who sat amidst dead and dying animals and tried to wrap his brain around whether or not an eagle owl had actually spoken to him, just as he had spoken back.

The fox’ whimpering had ended and it seemed asleep, its small chest rising and falling in regular intervals.  He wasn’t sure about the dog whose breathing was becoming ragged and sounding painful.  It tried to crawl closer and pressed itself against his thigh, as if seeking warmth and physical contact, and he pulled it against his body, not caring about ruining his fleece or jeans.

“Who would do such a thing? What harm has ever come from deer and rabbits? And baby foxes?” The dog nuzzled his hand. “And you, a police dog.” He looked down into the Rottweiler’s dark eyes. “I wish I knew your handler so I could talk to him or her. You’re a good police dog, taking care of a baby fox. What’s your name? Do you have friends, like another dog you like to play with?” He kept talking in a soothing voice until the pauses between the dog’s breath became longer and longer.

_::My name is Suzie, and Peter MacNamara is my handler. Rory’s my best friend and I will miss him terribly.::_

The dog pressed its wet nose into his palm one more time and then it drew a shuddering last breath.

 

When PC Warwick arrived with his impromptu WCU team he had managed to get together, he found DI Lestrade sitting cross-legged on a clearing with a fox cub in his arms and a dead Rottweiler lying next to him, its head still lying against his thigh.

“Lestrade, what on earth happened here?”  With steady hands he reached for the cub and Lestrade handed the small creature to him, albeit reluctantly.  He tried to stand up but found his legs had cramped, stumbled and would have lost his balance if not for a tall woman steadying him.  Both Warwick and the woman looked at him with confusion written all over their faces.

“What are you doing here, Lestrade?”  Warwick passed the cub into the care of an older policeman who turned and walked in the direction of the police cars. “This is not exactly your division, is it?”

“Look, I don’t really know where to begin.” Lestrade scratched his head and only when the woman, DC Stapleton, he noticed absent-mindedly, hastily offered him a handkerchief he noticed his hands were blood-smeared.  He briefly wondered what he might look like and a terrible idea crossed his mind. “I didn’t – oh my God, I had nothing to do with this,” he stammered and Warwick placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Relax. We know you didn’t. But how did you get here?”

“I –“ he was groping for words, “I was tipped off. Anonymous call. I… and then there was this owl, and I followed it all the way here, and I found this baby fox and the dog, and her name is Suzie and she’s MacNamara’s dog and she likes to play with Rory, and ah fuck, I sound like a raving lunatic.”

“You followed an owl,” Stapleton said.

“Yes.”

“And the dog’s name was Suzie and she liked to play with Rory.”

“Yes.”

“And you know that how?”

“She told me.”

“She told you.”

“Yes.”

“And you followed an owl.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of an owl?”

“An eagle owl. He’s huge, and he has blue eyes.”

“Blue eyes.”

Lestrade’s legs suddenly felt very unsteady and he reached out to Warwick who grabbed his wrist.

“Let’s get you to my car.”

“My car’s the other way,” he protested weakly.

“You’re in no condition to drive. Stapleton will follow us in your car.”

Lestrade nodded. “Alright.” He dropped his car keys into Stapleton's outstretched hand and let the younger officer take him to one of the police cars, gave him his address and slumped down on the passenger seat, sitting on an old blanket so as not to soil the seat with his bloodied jeans and fleece.  They didn’t speak a word on the ride home, and Warwick shot him a few worried glances as he stared out of the window with unseeing eyes.

When they arrived at his house, Warwick offered to come inside but Lestrade politely declined. “I much appreciate your concern and I know what a picture I must present, but I will neither faint nor do something desperate. I’ll shower and change and maybe get an hour of sleep, and we can talk later today. OK?”

“OK.” Warwick didn’t sound convinced but wasn’t up for an argument with a senior officer, and so he nodded curtly and got into his car.

Lestrade watched him drive off and stepped inside his house.  With shaking hands he pulled his phone out and dialled Sally Donovan’s number.  She picked up after only two rings, her voice annoyingly cheerful, given the early morning hour and his own sad state.

“Sir, good morning! What is it?”

“Sally, I was called to a case in the middle of the night and am a bit knackered. I’m gonna take a shower and catch two hours of sleep, and I’ll be at the office at ten. Can you manage until then?”

“What case?”

He could tell her curiosity was piqued but he was in no mood to speak about Richmond Park and so he brusquely said, “Bambi gone missing.”

“Oh. I see. Well, I hope you’ve been able to save Thumper. I’ll cover for you but if you’re not there by ten sharp, I’ll pick you up myself.”

“Thanks, Sally.”

They hung up and he quickly stripped, leaving his clothes in an untidy heap on the floor.  Out of habit, he opened the French doors, then stood in the shower until his skin was red and the bathroom was as foggy as a London autumn morning of olden times.  He brushed his teeth but didn’t shave, crawled into his bed naked and set his alarm for nine o’clock, not expecting to fall asleep after all he had seen, but as soon as he pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, his exhaustion got the better of him and he didn’t open his eyes before the alarm went off.

“Lestrade, into my office, please.”

Lestrade squared his shoulders and followed DCI Shielding inside.  The chief inspector sat down behind his desk and motioned for Lestrade to take one of the chairs opposite him. 

“What’s that I hear about you? Meddling with WCU business?”

“Sir, I wasn’t meddling. I was phoned and my help was requested.”

“By an owl.” Shiedling narrowed his eyes. 

Lestrade shifted uneasily. “I may have been a little shaken, sir. It’s not every day that I get called out of bed in the middle of the night to see such a battlefield.”

A rude snort was the answer to that. “Lestrade – Greg. We’ve been working together for how long? Six years?”

“Seven.”

“Seven years. And in all of that time you have never appeared shaken. And you have seen worse crime scenes than a bunch of dead deer. So don’t feed me any nonsense about being shaken.” He leaned back and cocked his head. “Tell me about that owl.”

Lestrade lowered his eyes, avoiding direct eye contact. “Sir, I may have been imagining things. I had some wine before I went to sleep.”

“Lestrade.” The DCI’s voice sounded impatient. “Cut the crap. We both know you don’t drink nearly enough to be imagining things. The owl. What kind of owl was it?”

“An eagle owl. It was a large eagle owl with blue eyes. He’s been coming to my house for the last two weeks and sits with me when I’m reading or working, or when I watch the telly.”

“He sits with you.”

“Yes.”

“Has he ever… tried to communicate in any way?”

Lestrade looked up, surprised. “He has. Sometimes I think he understands each word I say, and last night it was like…” He interrupted himself. Now that was something he did not feel comfortable sharing with his boss.

“You were saying?”

He sighed.  In for a penny, in for a pound. “He spoke to me last night. In my head. He told me to follow him.”  Well.  _Good-bye career._  

His boss froze in his chair and stared at him with eyes wide open. “You’ve spent the last two weeks with the Owl, and he has Spoken to you?”

“Yes, I believe he has,” he said cautiously.

Shielding cleared his throat. “Stapleton said the dog, Suzie, has Spoken to you as well just before she passed?”

Lestrade felt his palms get sweaty.  Where was all this headed?  He stole a glance to the door, expecting two burly policemen to barge inside and take him into a padded cell.

“I think so, yeah.”

Shielding started drumming his fingers on his desk and studied him out of narrowed eyes. “Intriguing,” was all he said. “I never noticed.” He reached for his phone and Lestrade rose from his chair, recognizing the dismissal for what it was.

“Well, Lestrade. Thanks for your time. I believe you have a double homicide to solve, yes?”

“Sir,” Lestrade said, puzzled, but Shielding was already dialling a number.

He walked back to his office and Donovan caught up with him just as he was about to close the door behind him.

“You want to see this.”

“What?”

“Come with me.”

With a sigh, he followed her into the small incident room and the news that greeted him was enough to yank his mind back on track.

 

When his mobile vibrated he snatched it from his inside pocket and frowned at the small screen.  Number withheld.  He grunted, annoyed, and snapped, “Lestrade.”

A polite voice at the other end said, “Good afternoon, Inspector. Have I caught you at an inconvenient time?”

“Mr Holmes.” He held up his hand when Donovan peered around the doorframe and mouthed, ‘a minute’. “It’s been a busy day. What can I do for you?”

“I just remembered we talked about having lunch some time and as my agenda tells me I have a massive two hour gap to look forward to, I thought I’d try my luck. But it seems today’s not the day.”

Lestrade was just about to voice a polite excuse when his stomach gave a loud rumble and he laughed despite himself. “You know what? This is a bad time but I’m starving. Where shall we meet?” He scribbled down the address of a restaurant Mycroft gave him. “That’s about ten minutes from here. When?”

“How about in ten minutes?”

“Make it fifteen. I need to speak with Sergeant Donovan first.”

“Fifteen minutes it is.”

They hung up and Lestrade got up from his chair, grabbed his dark overcoat and headed for Donovan’s desk.

“Late lunch,” he explained. “I’ve been summoned. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Nothing. I merely need your signature so I can go ahead and put in for the extra manpower we spoke about earlier.”

“Oh that. Sure.” He reached for his pen and took the forms she offered.  He glanced across the sheets but found nothing that hadn’t been discussed, and so he untidily scrawled his signature into the box. “There you go. I should be back in one and a half, two hours at the latest.”

She made a face. “Business lunch?”

“Something like that, yeah.” 

He nodded and left the building in the hope of finding a cab right away.

 

The restaurant turned out less posh than he had expected but he was nevertheless grateful he had remembered to bring a tie and that the suit he was wearing was not one of his old ones, either.  Mycroft Holmes rose to greet him, impeccably dressed in a navy pinstripe, and they shook hands.

A waiter appeared out of nowhere and presented them with their menus, and Lestrade’s stomach gave another loud rumble.  He felt heat creep up his neck but Mycroft pretended not to have heard.  Impeccable suit, impeccable manners.  Hard to believe this was Sherlock’s brother.

After they had chosen from the lunch menu and the complimentary bread basket was placed on the table along with a small amuse-gueule, Mycroft leaned back and gave Lestrade a scrutinizing look, the Holmes trademark, but unlike Sherlock’s rude stares the blue-and-grey gaze of Mycroft Holmes didn’t feel intruding and there was no urge to make his mind go blank.  Instead, he returned the gaze with one of his own and experienced the oddest sensation as a mix of _trust_ and _friendship_ seemed to flood his system.

“So, Inspector, care to tell me what’s keeping you so busy that you forget all about lunch?”

“Please, Mr Holmes, no titles during lunch. It’s Greg, or Lestrade, if you insist on sticking with formality. But no title. I’m a person too, you know.”

“Most people enjoy being addressed by the title they’ve rightfully earned.”

“Yeah, it’s all good when I’m policing and all, but I’m not most people, and sometimes I like being called by my name.”

Mycroft’s lips curved into a small smile, and Lestrade smiled back.

“Very well. Greg. And it’s Mycroft.”

“Mycroft.”

They toasted each other.

“It’s been a crazy day,” he confided, and before he knew what he was doing, he blurted it all out – the owl, the wildlife massacre, the dog and the baby fox, his boss’ strange reaction, the double homicide, and his fear of losing his mind. 

When he focussed his attention back on Mycroft Holmes who had placed his elbows on the table, eyes fixed on Lestrade, fingers stapled together in a gesture that was so very much like Sherlock, he realized what he’d been doing and briefly closed his eyes, mortified.

“I'm sorry. I am so sorry,” he stammered and pushed his chair back, getting ready to leave. “Maybe I should leave. I must sound like a madman.”

_::Sit.::_

He sat back down and reached for another slice of bread to occupy himself but froze in mid-movement.

“What was that?”

“Tell me about that owl of yours,” Mycroft said, ignoring his question.  Lestrade studied his face for signs of mockery but when he found none, he slowly buttered the slice of bread, taking his time to regain his composure, took a bite and chewed thoughtfully before answering.

“Well, he showed up one evening when it was raining really badly. He was already soaked through and through which is not good for an owl. Well, it’s not good for anyone, but all those wet feathers and body temperature dropping? Dangerous.” He grinned. “You know how I feel about shy creatures, and so it seemed logical to take him inside to he could warm up and get dry.”

“Naturally. One must never hesitate to offer shelter to an eagle owl,” Mycroft said drily. “They’re small birds and they adapt easily.”

Lestrade’s grin widened, making his smile wrinkles deepen. “My thoughts precisely. He’s a big fluff, really, he likes to be cuddled and scratched. Actually kinda cute.”

“Cute.” Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “Fluff.”

Their food was served and Mycroft watched with faint amusement as Lestrade tucked in with a healthy appetite.

“What else? On plate-sharing terms already?”

“Hell no. Owls have gross table manners. I’ve never seen him eat, come to think of it. He’s tidy, too, never, uhm, leaves droppings or anything, and none of that disgusting pellet stuff either.”

“I should hope not.” It was delivered rather primly and Lestrade chuckled.

“Sorry. Inappropriate lunch topic.”

“Indeed. Does your feathered companion have a name?”

“’course he does. It’s…” He started coughing.

“Yes?” Mycroft waited patiently until Lestrade had gulped down the rest of his sparkling water, then reached across the table with the bottle in his hand to refill his glass. “What's his name again?”

Lestrade looked down on his plate for a moment but when he raised his eyes, they were brimming with laughter. “He’s called Mike.”

“Mike,” Mycroft echoed. “Interesting choice. May I ask what inspired it?”

“You did. I’m sorry, but you did.” He tried to hide the laughter that threatened to bubble up inside of him but it was pointless, despite Mycroft’s sharp eyes focussing on him. “He’s all worthy and dignified, and he wears his feathers like a suit, and he has this beak and those eyes and…” his voice trailed off as he looked at the man sitting opposite him. Really looked at him.

Mycroft Holmes.  Who had a long nose bent at an odd angle just above the tip.  Who had razor sharp blue-and-grey eyes.  Who had elegant hands with long elegant fingers.  Who dressed with the utmost care.  Who had this habit of coming and going unannounced and who walked with an unusually light step.  Mycroft Holmes, who now cocked his head and looked at him with wicked amusement glittering in his eyes.

_::Yes, Greg? Please do go on.::_

Lestrade’s knife and fork clattered down, earning him reproachful stares from the neighbouring tables.  Three splashes of herb butter landed on his shirt and tie but he didn’t care.  He gaped, mouth open, eyes round and wide, wishing desperately for an off button.  A hole in the wall.  Wished to wake up to an ordinary workday with no owls and no Holmeses and no voices in his head.

“You,” he finally managed after what seemed ages to him.

Mycroft held his gaze and lowered his own cutlery but said nothing.

“You,” he repeated. “You’re my owl? My… Mike? That’s been you all along?”

Still no answer, and for the second time this afternoon he felt heat creep up his neck and he blushed furiously. “And you let me scratch and cuddle you, and you sat on my lap, and oh my God, all the things I’ve told you.”

 _::Calm down, Lestrade.::_ The voice inside his head was sharp and he immediately closed his mouth.  Mycroft shifted on his chair with what might have looked like unease in any other man and circled the rim of his glass with one long finger before giving him a strange look from under his lashes.

“Before you work yourself up into a stage of unnecessary embarrassment, I want you to consider this: I’ve been spending my evenings and a considerable amount of my nights at your house, letting myself be scratched and cuddled while in my Owl shape, and watching over your sleep. What does this tell you about me?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

The expression in Lestrade’s eyes shifted from puzzled to pensive to understanding.

“Oh,” he said. And again, softer, “oh.”

Mycroft found himself rather intrigued by the discovery that Lestrade seemed more concerned about the fact that it had been Mycroft all along than about animals verbally communicating with him.  He remained silent and waiting.

“Why me?” Lestrade finally asked. “Why did you come to me?”

“I was on my way home from a meeting, if you will, and got caught in the rain,” Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. “I had underestimated the weather and thought I could squeeze in another quick check on a situation that had been brought to my attention and still make it home in time. Well, I didn’t manage to outfly the rain and had to start looking for a hiding place. So actually, the initial choice was purely accidental.” He noticed he had started pushing his food around on his plate and forced himself to put the fork down. “But the question I’ve been asking myself these past days is not why I’ve come to you the first place. Rather, it's why do I keep coming back?”

“Why do you?”

“That’s what I need to find out. Do you have any plans for the weekend?”

The sudden change of topic seemed to catch Lestrade unawares and he blinked. “What?”

“Could you make yourself available for the weekend?” Mycroft found he was holding his breath and he exhaled, surprised at himself.

“Yeah,” Lestrade slowly replied, “I believe I could. Why?”

“I think there is something we need to settle between us, and it doesn’t belong in a public place.”

“Yeah? And what would that be?” The inspector’s voice sounded cautious and Mycroft decided it was time to stop beating around the bush.

“Are you familiar with the concept of Werecreatures and Shifters?”

“Like Werewolves and people who can change into animals? Yes, I’ve heard of them. My ex used to watch a TV show with vampires, a wolf pack and a Shifter. I liked the Wolves, they were cool. Are you trying to tell me you’re a… what, Werebird?”

“That is correct. I am a Wereowl.”

Lestrade froze for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

“All these creatures actually exist. There are Weres, who can change into only one species, and there are Shifters, who can change into any living being they’ve ever touched. As you can imagine, there are certain rivalries between the two groups but it’s harmless bickering most of the time. Weres and Shifters alike prefer to stay amongst themselves but there are times when we need to work together and these animosities must be laid to rest. It becomes problematic when we need to get the Guardians on board.”

“Guardians?”

“Guardians are animals with enhanced intellectual abilities who serve as a link between the humans and the metamorphs, pets, for example.”

“Metamorphs?”

“Shifters and Weres.”

“So a Shifter can change into anything, a Were is stuck with one shape, and a Guardian is a super smart animal? Like, uh, Lassie?”

“Yes.”

“And is there a chain of command? You said you have to work together sometimes, right? How is that organized?”

“Each species has group leaders, district leaders and so forth, and there is one who oversees all.”

“Need I ask who that is?”

“I believe you know the answer to that.” Mycroft allowed a faint smile to ghost over his features.

“Ha. So that squirrel did bow to you after all.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The squirrel? That afternoon in the park? Remember I asked if it had bowed to you and you said you weren’t discussing rodent etiquette with me?”

“Oh.”

“And?”

A small sigh escaped Mycroft at Lestrade’s insistence. “Yes, Greg, the Squirrel was bowing to me. She was one of the lower ranks and recognized me.”

“I knew it.” Lestrade had absent-mindedly finished his lunch and eyed Mycroft’s half-eaten dish. “You’re done with that?”

“What?” Mycroft looked down on his plate. “I’m not hungry anymore. Why, do you want it?”

“Uh, no. Maybe some other time.”

“Coffee? Or a dessert?”

“A gin would be nice, but given the time of day I think I’ll settle for an espresso, thank you.”

Mycroft signalled the waiter to take their plates away and ordered a coffee for himself and an espresso for Lestrade.  He leaned back in his chair and studied the inspector.  “May I say that you seem amazingly unsurprised.”

Lestrade huffed. “That’s because I believe I will wake up any time soon and all this will be but a weird dream.” He toyed with the small breadknife the waiter had overlooked. “I mean, Shifters? Wereowl? Please.” He worried his lower lip. “How am I supposed to react? A couple of weeks ago, your brother was the strangest creature I had to deal with, and now I have this speaking Owl that comes to visit, and a police dog tells me her name just before she dies –“ He looked up sharply. “Oh my God. Sherlock. Is he – uh…”

“He’s a Cat.”

“A Cat.”

“A black Cat. Ill-tempered and spitting most of the time.”

They exchanged a look and Lestrade started laughing. “It fits him. Turning his back on the world and all the drama?”  Mycroft hummed in reply but their conversation halted for a moment when their coffee was served.  When the waiter had left, Lestrade took a sip from his espresso, lowered the small cup and said matter-of-factly, “The reason I am not banging my head against this very table is that I want to hear you out. I need to get all this into my head so I can think it through tonight. Right now, I’m busy sorting this double homicide I’m working on and I can’t allow letting my focus slip. Not now, anyway.” He made a sound between laughter and a sigh. “I guess I’m doing what Sherlock calls ‘gathering data’ for later processing or something. When I get home, whenever that will be, I will open a bottle of red wine and think about all of this and you might want to have the nice young men in their clean white coats stand by.”

“Mhm.” Mycroft stirred some sugar into his coffee. “Does that mean you’d rather be alone tonight?”  He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice but Lestrade must have caught it nevertheless because he started to reach across the table as if to place his hand on Mycroft’s arm but changed his mind in mid-movement and pulled back.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, “but yeah, that’s what it means. I think I need to be alone tonight.”

Mycroft nodded. “I understand.”

“So, Mycroft. What was that about me being available for the weekend?”

“Oh. Yes. There is something I need to discuss with you, and I would also like to run a few tests.”

“What?”

“Greg, have you ever wondered why you inspire such trust? Not only in animals but in other humans as well?”

“Why, I hope because I’m a good person, and a good policeman.”

“You certainly are, but squirrels tend not to be impressed by police ranks.”

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know why that is. People have always come to me, I guess. And animals. I find them easy to handle. Animals, I mean. Easy to handle.”

“Even Sherlock seems to trust you, and that alone should have put me on alert a long time ago. He’s quick to dismiss others but now that I think of it, he has hardly ever said anything derisive about you.”

“He does order me not to think in his presence, you know.”

Mycroft made a dismissive gesture. “That doesn’t count.” He narrowed his eyes speculatively. “He has however mentioned that he finds you difficult to read sometimes.”

“I beg to differ. He tells me all about last night’s shag by the way my shoes are laced up. How can he find me difficult to read?”

“Last night’s shag?”

Lestrade had the grace to lower his gaze for a moment. “Yeah, uhm, well, it happens. I am divorced, you know,” he said defensively.

“I’m not judging you, Greg. You’re an attractive man. I’m sure there are ample opportunities.”

“Well, so far there haven’t been any queues outside of my house but yeah, I guess my market value is not so bad.” He emptied his espresso and made a face. “Ugh. Bitter. So, weekend?”

“I would like you to consider spending the weekend at my place so we can talk some more in private.”

“There’s nothing to consider.” Lestrade pulled his lower lip between his teeth. “I’ll come. I want to hear more about this Owl business of yours, and I want you to explain to me why I can hear you in my head. Can you do that?”

“I believe I can.”

“Good. That’s good. So, when should I be there?”

“Will Saturday morning be agreeable, or would you prefer the afternoon?”

“Morning’s fine. I have a feeling all this was merely scratching the surface, and there’s a whole lot more.”

“There is indeed. I will have you picked up at ten o’clock, if you allow?”

“I do allow. Thank you. I have to turn my car in for inspection, and I hate to battle the tourists for cabs or seats on the tube.”

“Ten o’clock it is.”

******

“Greg. Gregory, listen to me, animals do not talk. You have to stop this.”

“But I can hear them! They talk to me all the time! I understand every word they say!”

“I’m telling you again, Gregory, animals do not talk. Your Gran lets you watch too much telly. I really must speak with her.”

“But Gran says that she hears them, too.”

“Gran is old and she’s getting a little confused.”

“She’s not confused, Ma! She’s very clever, and she teaches me all about dogs and birds, and she tells me about Grandad and how he used to be a beagle.”

“That is enough now, Gregory! No more talk of this!”

 _So much pain._   Like a lightning bolt inside his head.  Then, silence.  Sadness, and loneliness.  More silence.

Soft touches along his body.  The soft hoot of an owl, and the feeling of a feathered body pressing against his side. 

_Warmth._  
 _Trust._  
 _Friendship._

No more silence.  No noise, either, but no more silence.  And, even more important, no more sadness.  No more loneliness.

_Animals do not talk, Gregory._

_::Not all of them. But I do.::_

 

Lestrade woke with a start, heart pounding, skin clammy.  With a groan he sat up, rubbed his hands across his face and pulled his legs up to put his elbows on his knees and stared ahead, unfocussed.  His mother’s voice.  He barely remembered it when he was awake but in his dreams he heard her loud and clear.  He didn’t dream about his parents often and when he did, it was vague reminiscences of everyday childhood episodes.  With a sudden pang of guilt he realized he hadn’t visited their grave in well over half a year although he lit a candle for his Gran each month when the moon was full, a childhood ritual that had brought him comfort when he felt lonely.  Not that he felt lonely an awful lot, growing up with four cousins, but every now and again, it had caught up with him.  But he knew his Gran had been lonely at the nursing home she had moved into when she hadn’t been able to look after her household any longer, and he had visited her twice a week, on Thursdays, when school had ended earlier, and each weekend, turning a deaf ear to the teasing and picking of his classmates.  And when he couldn’t visit, during the summer holidays spent elsewhere with his aunt and uncle and cousins, he wrote her postcards and lit a candle when the moon was full.

Strange that he should dream of his mother tonight.  He bit his thumbnail and frowned into the darkness.  If only he could remember beyond that dream.  Much as he agonised, the bits and pieces wouldn’t come together.  Why had she been so insistent about animals not speaking?  And why had he been so insistent they did?  What was this about his Grandad being a… beagle?  Had his Grandad been…?  He flopped back onto the bed and put one arm across his face. 

If only it was Saturday already.

******

When the doorbell rang, announcing his visitor, Mycroft all but jumped up from where he had been sitting on his couch, pretending to himself he was reading the newspaper when in fact he had been staring at the same article for a while now.  He could not for the life of him fathom why he was so jumpy.  There was nothing to be nervous about.

He opened the door, not bothering to check the CCTV.  Apart from his driver having confirmed the expected time of arrival and apart from each visitor having to check in with the concierge, the inspector’s signal was clear for him to pick up now that he was attuned to it.

Lestrade stood with his back to the door, looking at the expensively carpeted hallway that led to Mycroft’s penthouse apartment.  Worn leather travel bag slung across his shoulder, dressed in an equally worn khaki lightweight jacket, a pair of faded jeans and heavy boots, he looked very much out of place in the exclusive apartment building, yet when he turned around and greeted Mycroft with one of his easy smiles, he seemed to belong all the same.

“Hello Mycroft,” he said cheerfully. “I should have known your crib was going to be super posh. I didn’t bring suit and tie and I hope your butler won’t disapprove.”

“Nonsense.” The corners of Mycroft’s mouth twitched and all traces of nervousness floated away. “Rest assured I have neither a butler nor a valet in my employment. This is not Eaton Place, and this… crib does not need an extensive staff.” He gestured inside. “Please. Come in.”

“Not Eaton Place? Damn.” Lestrade stepped inside and cast curious glances in all directions. “Damn,” he said again. “This kinda dwarfs my hobbit hole, huh.”

“Nothing wrong with a hobbit hole.” Mycroft closed the door. “Would you like to see your room first?”

“Yeah, why not.” Lestrade followed Mycroft along the hallway which made a turn to the left. “How big is this place?”

Mycroft gave a non-committal shrug and opened a door to the right. “Yours for the night.” He moved aside to let Lestrade enter. 

Lestrade whistled softly. “Comfy. I like it.” He let the bag slide off his shoulder and placed it on the floor next to the queen-size bed while the jacket was tossed carelessly on the bed throw. “What’s behind that door?”

“Bathroom.”

“Mine?”

“Yours.”

“Wow. You know, if the bed is as comfortable as it looks, I might be tempted to come here more often. It’s like one of those exquisite little hotels you read about in travel magazines.”  He opened the door and peered inside. “Nice shower.” He closed the door again and turned to face Mycroft, an expectant look on his face. “Well? What now?”

“Have you had breakfast yet, Greg?”

“A bowl of porridge before my run, yeah. But I wouldn’t say no to a cuppa, if that’s not asking too much.”

Mycroft felt himself smile. “I believe that request is within reason. Follow me.” He crossed the hallway into the kitchen area. “Tea, coffee, latte or a cappuccino?”

“Err, just coffee, please. Don’t go Starbucks on me, I can’t handle all that decision making during the weekend.” Lestrade grinned and Mycroft reached into one of the large cupboards to produce two expensive-looking coffee mugs.  

Lestrade eyed the coffee maker machine that looked disappointingly unspectacular. “I’m surprised you don’t have one of those authentic Italian coffee thingies.”

“Why? I am not at all against the small conveniences modern household equipment has to offer. And believe it or not, I do know how to use a vacuum cleaner although I draw the line at doing my own laundry.”

Lestrade accepted the mug with steaming coffee and inhaled appreciatively. “Smells good. No milk, thanks, but sugar would be nice.” He took one lump from the small bowl that was offered and dropped it into his coffee. “Spoon? Ta.”

When Mycroft’s mug was filled as well, he steered his way around the divider separating the kitchen area from the living room section.  Lestrade stopped dead in his tracks and stared.

“Now that is obscene,” he observed. “How much room does one person need, and how much bigger can a telly be?” He realized what he had just said and winced. “God, that was rude. Sorry. I am sorry, Mycroft. This is actually beautiful, I just hadn’t expected it to be quite so… large,” he finished lamely and shifted uneasily on his feet. “Hell, I don’t even know if you live alone.”

“I do, and there is no need to apologize. I would be perfectly happy with a smaller apartment but I have to entertain now and then. Unfortunately it’s not only friends and family where one could keep it small and informal but officials of different functions and hierarchical standings. The alternative would have been a townhouse with clearly divided work and living space but these are ridiculously expensive in terms of maintenance and utilities.” He shrugged one shoulder. “You get used to it, and when the dining area is closed off and I get a fire going during autumn and winter, it actually is quite cosy.”

They sat down on the generous L-shaped sofa and chatted about commonplaces for a while, warming up and dancing around the subject at hand.  Lestrade provided a spot on imitation of Sherlock tearing Anderson to pieces which made Mycroft laugh out loud.  The ice seemed broken after that for Lestrade suddenly leaned forward, fixing Mycroft with his dark eyes and said, “I had the strangest dream the other night.”

Mirroring Lestrade’s posture, Mycroft asked cautiously, “Would you like to tell me about it?”

Lestrade swallowed, noisily stirred the rest of his coffee and then gulped it down. “I dreamt about my mother. You see, I don’t remember an awful lot about my earliest childhood…”

He went on to tell Mycroft about the time after his father had died, what he remembered of his mother changing from the sweet and caring woman she had been to the strict and unforgiving woman she had become, told him about being taken in by his mother’s brother after she had passed away, about growing up with four cousins and told him about the close relationship he had had with this paternal grandmother.  He told him about the odd memory fragments about animals speaking to him and about the mysterious remark about his grandfather being a beagle.  His voice faltered occasionally and his gaze grew distant, but he kept talking until he had told everything he needed to tell.

When Lestrade had finished, Mycroft leaned back and studied his face.  The inspector looked a little tired but not unduly stressed out or on edge and when his eyes met Mycroft’s, he looked hopeful and trusting.

“Well? What do you make of that?”

The fingers of his right hand drumming on the cream-coloured cushions, Mycroft rapidly went through his options.  He settled for a blunt approach, sensing a no-nonsense and direct way of addressing the matter would be more appreciated than anything else.

“Greg, I have reason to believe that you are an Anchor, and a particularly strong one, too.”

“A what?” Lestrade looked puzzled.  Apparently that was not the answer he had expected.

“An Anchor. Someone who provides protection and a safe haven for a metamorph.”

“What does an Anchor do? Is that like a safe house for, uh, Werecreatures?”

“Not necessarily a physical safe house although an Anchor’s home may become a metamorph’s first choice when in danger.” He crossed his legs. “When we Shift into our animal form, part of our human nature lies dormant and we take on the animal’s instincts and personality, if you will. I do not change fully into an Owl, I will always remain part human with my knowledge and understanding intact, but I will act and react like an owl would most of the time.”

“Like preening your feathers and sleeping on one foot?” Lestrade smiled at the memory, and Mycroft felt himself smiling with him.

“That, too. An Anchor keeps us grounded, is our link to the human side of us, will provide help when we can’t help ourselves, and it is through the Bond we share with our Anchor that we will not lose ourselves in the animal we Shift into.”

“A Bond?”

“A Bond is the connection between and Anchor and his or her metamorph. We communicate through the Bond or the Link and one Feels the other’s presence and state of mind through it as well.”

“Mhm.” Lestrade had pulled the little finger of his left hand between his teeth and was chewing on it. “Can anyone become an Anchor?”

“No, it’s passed down from parent to child. It’s usually from father to son and from mother to daughter but there are exceptions, depending on how strong the Gift is. Sometimes, only one child inherits the Gift, and sometimes it skips one or even two generations altogether and manifests in an unsuspecting great-granddaughter which makes it difficult for the child to come to understand and accept what’s been brought upon her. Most of the time, there’s someone left to train the child.”

“And if not?”

Mycroft spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “If the children grow up in a stable and loving surrounding, they can learn to deal with it. They may feel odd and out of place, but they may choose careers where they support and help animals and nature, such as veterinarians…”

“… or join the WCU,” Lestrade said pensively. “Interesting. And the others?”

“Well, some of them fall on the path unstable minds tend to choose.”

“Drugs and alcohol?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Damn.” Lestrade reached for his mug but found it to be empty. 

Mycroft immediately stood up. “Would you like another one?”

“That would be fantastic, yeah.”

Both mugs in hand, he went back into the kitchen area and made another coffee for Lestrade and a café au lait for himself, mulling over what to do next.  How much would the inspector be willing to take before it all got too much?  He seemed to take it all in his stride and there were no signs of fear or rejection.  Sherlock was right, Lestrade was not easy to read.  He had Probed once or twice but had Received nothing.  Intriguing.  That had not been the case when he had been to his house in his Owl shape.  Lestrade seemed to have deliberately Sent signals of reassurance and friendship to his feathered guest, and Mycroft wondered if he had been aware of it at all.  Or whether he deliberately shut down now to protect himself or whether it was an instinctive reaction.

He returned to the living room and found Lestrade looking out the French doors onto the generous outdoor space. 

“This is amazing. Too bad it’s raining, we could sit outside for lunch.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not yet. I was just thinking it would be nice.”

“Part of it is roofed.”

“No, it’s fine, really.” He accepted the coffee. “Thank you.”

They sat back down and Mycroft perched on the edge of the couch.

“Greg, will you let me touch you?”

Lestrade coughed. “Pardon?”

“Not in any way that would be inappropriate,” Mycroft said stiffly. “If you will allow me to touch your wrist, that would suffice.” He hesitated, and Lestrade immediately asked, “But it wouldn’t be good enough?”

“Mhm. I think I could work with what I pick up but indeed it would be easier and quicker if you allowed me to touch your forehead, or your temple.”

Lestrade lowered his eyes and studied his hands for a moment, then he sighed. “Sure, why not. Do your Vulcan mind meld, Spock.”

“Do I look pointy-eared to you, Inspector?” It was delivered haughtily but there was a trace of laughter in Mycroft’s voice, and Lestrade’s face cracked into a lopsided grin.

“Not right now, no you don’t. Although I do like the ear tufts.”

Mycroft huffed and left his spot to settle down next to Lestrade. “This might feel odd,” he warned, “but not painful. Do I have your approval to proceed? I swear upon my honour I will not pry into your mind. I will merely look for that one channel.”

“Go ahead. We’ve come this far, might as well go all the way. I trust you.”

 _Might as well go all the way._   The words caused something in Mycroft’s stomach to flutter but as they were not delivered with the intention he would prefer them to have, he firmly closed the lid on that impulse, reached out and gently touched the tips of his fingers to either side of Lestrade’s head.  Their eyes locked and Mycroft very gently Probed…

…and Felt.  It was right there.  Weak at first, hesitant, hidden away and forgotten for so long.  Unused, untouched, uncertain.  He opened his shield further and tentatively Reached out.  His skin started to tingle as the channel stirred to life, lighting up in a rich gold, like liquid amber, and as their systems recognized each other, Anchor and un-Anchored, two loose ends stretching to Bond, something like an electric shock went through him and he let go with a gasp.  Lestrade flinched back at the same instant and they sat there, panting.

“What the bloody buggering fucking… _fuck_ was that?” The inspector’s voice sounded husky and slightly out of breath, shooting straight into Mycroft’s system and he slammed his shield shut without thinking.  He blinked rapidly, trying to process what had just happened, or rather, what had almost happened.

“I was not prepared for that,” he mumbled, cleared his throat and looked at Lestrade who stared at him with eyes wide open. “Greg, I don’t know how to deliver this more gently, but you are one of the strongest Anchors I have ever come across. Frankly, I am surprised you haven’t been recognized for what you are.”

He slumped back against the soft cushions and fixed his eyes on the blank television screen.

“In all of those years, have you never been approached or Spoken to?”

“What, by an animal?” Lestrade reached for his coffee with a hand that was not quite steady. “No.” He took a gulp. “When I was little, I used to imagine animals would speak to me. Not all of them, but some. Like I told you earlier, my Ma got terribly upset when I tried to tell her about it and I wasn’t permitted to speak about it, and when I grew older, it felt like a childhood imagination.” He swirled the coffee around. “It’s just that I, well, I can get through to animals when they’re frightened so they’re not frightened anymore. It works really well with our police horses and dogs, but other animals, too. Like the squirrels in the park. They just come to me. I can’t help it.” He set the mug down on the coffee table. “I mean, I don’t deliberately seek situations out so I can jump in and be the hero, I’m not a horse whisperer, I'm a homicide detective and I don’t have an awful lot to do with our mounted staff and I try not to hang around too much. It’s just when I happen to be around when something happens…” he shrugged a little helplessly. “And I get through to witnesses easier than the colleagues, it’s like I can empathize a bit better than Donovan or Miller.” He looked up sharply. “Oh my God. Please don’t tell me I’m influencing people.”

“Certainly not.”

“Can you do that? Read other people’s minds? Make them do what you want them to do?”

“What?” Mycroft started. “Dear Lord, no! That would be an unspeakable crime! That’s against all we hold dear. Abuse of power is unforgivable and will be brought before the Council.”

“But you have spoken to me. How is that possible?”

“I knew there was something there but it would never have occurred to me to Test you without your permission. When I woke you that night, it was an emergency, a matter of life and death, and under circumstances such as that it’s possible to Speak to somebody you’re not Bonded to.”

“So, when Suzie Spoke to me…”

“Same thing,” Mycroft nodded. “She was dying.”

Lestrade grit his teeth. “You know, I went to MacNamara the next day, and I also went to see Rory, Suzie’s friend. I didn’t tell MacNamara that Suzie had Spoken to me but I told Rory and I swear to you he cried. I didn’t know dogs could cry, but I held him and he cried and I thought my heart would break.”

He swallowed and got up to stand before the window front, looking out across the terrace.  After a few moments, he took a deep breath, put a hand through his hair and asked, “So, Mycroft, who grounds you? Who is your Anchor?”

Mycroft sat very still and took a few shallow breaths. “Nobody does. I’m not Anchored.”

“What?” Lestrade turned around, very slowly, and gave him an incredulous look. “But didn’t you say you could lose yourself in your Animal shape if you’re not grounded?”

“Only if I don’t Shift in time.”

“But what if…”

“I can look after myself,” Mycroft interrupted, not unkindly.

“Can’t you… Bond, or Link, or whatever with Sherlock? I mean, you’re brothers, right? There’s got to be a connection there.”

“Bond… with Sherlock?” Mycroft echoed. “No. Out of the question. There is a fraternal Bond, naturally, but we cannot form a true Bond amongst ourselves.”

“Why not?”

“Neither of us is an Anchor, Greg. Weres cannot Anchor each other, and we cannot form Bonds. Besides, my brother is not the most reliable of people and I shudder to think what Bonded to him would feel like.”

“Who’s taking care of him then?”

“A very old friend of his, a Martha Hudson. She’s a kind, elderly lady, not nearly strong enough to actually Bond with him, but I believe they have formed a Link that keeps him stable to a certain extent.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to Reach out to you. I’m fairly certain he must have Sensed something.” He tapped his lips with his fingers. “I wonder what he meant when he said you’re hard to read.”

“Well, he sometimes gives me these odd stares, you know, like when he’s trying to look right through you? I hate it when he does that so I let my mind go blank and stare right ahead. Usually helps.”

“You know how to Block?” Mycroft felt his eyebrows rise. “Who taught you that?”

“I read a book when I was in my teens, about a young empath who couldn’t shield himself from his surroundings, and how he was taken under the wing of some sort of Master Empath who told him how to blank his mind.” He grinned sheepishly. “Apparently the author knew what he was talking about. It irritates the hell out of Sherlock and I like it when he doesn’t win all the time.”

“You didn’t Block me.”

“You weren’t prying.” Lestrade sat back down. “Back to the question at hand. Why aren’t you Anchored? From what I gather, you’re pretty important, right? What if anything ever happens to you? Who helps you?”

Mycroft felt his palms go sweaty. “No-one does,” he admitted.

“But isn’t that dangerous?”

“I can take care of myself,” he repeated stubbornly.

“Bullshit,” Lestrade said, making the word crack like a whip. “I know I’ve just started to learn about all that Shifting and Bonding and Linking and whatever, but I happen to understand that particular line of business. It is irresponsible to work without a partner to guard your back, policeman or boss owl.” He looked down at his hands and seemed to struggle with himself.  When he looked up, there was a strange expression in his eyes.

“What if I Anchor you? Could I do that?”

 _Inhale-two-three exhale-two-three._   Everything in Mycroft’s system flared up, shrieking _YESSSSS_ but he forced his face to remain calm, willing his pulse and heart rate to slow down again.

“Greg,” he said carefully, “you have just said so yourself, you have barely begun to learn about the complex world of metamorphs. I have not invited you over to force you into making a decision. I wanted to explain things to you, wanted to test if you are Gifted, and provide you with all information you need in case you are. I feel immensely flattered –” he stopped in mid-sentence when Lestrade held up a hand.

“Bullshit,” he said again. “Yeah, all this stuff is new, yeah, there’s probably loads of things I still need to learn. But Mycroft, seriously, you’ve been coming to my place for almost two weeks. I’ve told you all kinds of stuff, I scratched and cuddled you and you sat on my legs, for heaven’s sake. I’m lonely, you’re lonely, and if I’m not completely mistaken, our brainwaves seem compatible, judging from that electric shock we both got when you did that mind meld thing.” He drew a deep breath. “Why would I Anchor anyone but you?”

Mycroft blinked again.  It seemed to turn into some sort of annoying tick today, blinking rapidly.

“Greg,” he said and hated how unsteady his voice sounded, “you don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to. I’m sober, I’m grown-up, I’m unattached, and I think it would be a good thing to do.” He worried his lower lip. “This… Bonding. It doesn’t require any unspeakable ritual?”

“Uh, no, it doesn’t.” Heat crept up his neck. “But a Bond is not to be entered upon a whim, Greg.” He cleared his throat. “It goes deep and is something on an intimate level.”

“Oh.” Lestrade sounded a little taken aback. “Do we have to, err…” He groped for a tactful word.

“No, we don’t. That’s not what I meant by intimate.”

“Good.” The relief was unmistakable and Mycroft felt his heart sink.  A tendril of disappointment must have filtered through his shield because Lestrade narrowed his eyes questioningly. “Are you –” he broke off, uncertainty showing on his face.

“I am,” Mycroft calmly confirmed.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Does it matter?”

“It does not. Does it matter to you?”

“No. Doesn’t run in the family. Narrow-mindedness, that is.”

“I’m glad.”

“So am I.” A pause. “What are you proposing, then?”

“We can form a Link for now.”

“Like Sherlock and his elderly lady?”

“Yes. Although,” his lips quirked, “I have reason to believe that a Link with you will be stronger than anything Mrs Hudson has to offer.”

“What’s the difference between a Link and a Bond?”

“A Link can be Disconnected without either of us coming to harm. It’s a less intense commitment, it’s more like a mutually agreed arrangement.”

“But we can, uh, like, mindtalk to each other? And I know when you’re in trouble?”

“I’m not sure about Mindspeech, I will need to Test you for that. That depends on the strength of the Anchor.” A little smile danced across his lips. “However I have a feeling we will be able to communicate perfectly well once you know how. With regards to your second question, yes, we will Sense each other.”

“But you will not read my mind?”

“No, I will not. I wasn’t joking when I said abuse of power is punishable. Things are different between Bonded or even Lifebonded partners, but a Link is not that intense.”

“Well then,” Lestrade seemed to steady himself. “What do I do?”

“Allow me.” Mycroft raised his hands again but before he placed his fingers against Lestrade’s temples once more, he searched his face. “You really are certain about that?”

“Oh for the sake of crying out loud, Holmes, do it.”

Mycroft drew a deep breath and gently touched Lestrade’s skin, closing his eyes in concentration.  The Connection flared to life almost immediately, flooding his veins with amber warmth, pulsing steadily, almost like a heartbeat, filling him with a sense of peace.

_Warmth._  
 _Trust._  
 _Friendship._

He lowered his hands and opened his eyes again.  Lestrade’s face held an expression of wonder, and his eyes, his… eyes…  His pupils were huge, the iris a golden band around velvety blackness that seemed to beckon for Mycroft to tumble forward into the abyss, and Mycroft bit his lower lip as unwelcome images flooded his mind for there were other ways to see those warm brown eyes grow huge and dark, images of a salt and pepper head flung back in wordless invitation, the strong column of Lestrade’s neck exposed for his lips to explore… He hoped Lestrade wasn’t yet able to properly filter and identify that particular impulse, but a featherlight touch to his cheeks made his eyes flutter close once more and he felt another surge of heat shoot through his body.

“Your eyes,” Lestrade said softly, something like awe in his voice, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s to do with the Link,” Mycroft croaked, forcing his eyes open. “It happens when a Link clicks into place.”

“It’s beautiful.” Lestrade wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue and Mycroft watched, mesmerized, but a loud growling sound made them snap back to attention and Lestrade’s right hand flew to his stomach.  He laughed, and the spell was broken.

“Oh God, I could murder a steak. You have anything to eat, or do we order in?”


	5. Chapter 5

“Ground, centre and – shield up,” the soft voice repeated patiently for what must have been the umptieth time.

Lestrade panted, squeezing his eyes shut.  His palms were sweaty and he balled his hands into tight fists, waiting.  Waiting.  Nothing happened.  Cool fingers circled his wrists, signalling for this exercise to be over, and he slowly blinked his eyes open.  Mycroft regarded him with something akin to pride.

“Well done, Greg, very well done. Your shield held.”  He let go of Lestrade’s wrists, rose from where he had been crouching before him, sat back down on the comfortable two-seater and after a brief internal struggle against what was proper behaviour and what wasn’t, pulled his legs up.  “I think you’ve got the hang of it now.”

A groan was the answer to that. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.” Lestrade reached for his water bottle and greedily gulped the cool liquid down, not bothering with the glass. “And all this from sitting and thinking.” He stood and stretched his arms above his head and bent backwards, making his shoulders plop, and the hem of his t-shirt lifted up to reveal lightly tanned skin.  Mycroft swallowed and forced himself not to stare, but of course he had caught a glimpse of an enticing trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of those well-fitting jeans.  The easy camaraderie that was developing between them felt both utterly unfamiliar and utterly delightful to Mycroft who discovered the Inspector to be pleasant company.  If only he weren’t so disturbingly attractive…

It was early Sunday evening and they had been working on Lestrade's shield since Saturday afternoon.  Lestrade had turned out to be a quick learner, given the fact that he had to make up for lost time as these very basic exercises should have been taught to him during his childhood.  Teaching an adult was both easier and more difficult than teaching a child.  Easier, because certain things could be explained more quickly to an adult, and more difficult, because an adult tended to be set in his ways, even more so if said adult was a wary police officer.  Trust didn’t come easy to Lestrade, but as his grip on their Connection grew stronger, something inside him seemed to yield over the course of the day and he followed Mycroft’s instructions eagerly, if not smoothly.  Once Mycroft had realized how strong an Anchor Lestrade really was, he had pushed all other exercises aside and focussed on shield training instead.  With his Gift lying dormant, there had been little to no danger of anybody trying to force himself or herself upon Lestrade, but with his channels wide open and untrained, he would not do well in the outside world unless he knew how to shield himself from unwanted intrusion.  Obviously he could not be expected to shield himself with the ease that stemmed from lifelong practice after only one day but Mycroft was nevertheless pleased with his student because Lestrade seemed to instinctively recognize the signs of his shield slipping and was surprisingly quick to learn how to snap it back up. 

He leaned back and squinted up into the blue sky that looked as if it hadn’t been pouring down all night.  Lestrade had insisted on taking their exercises outside, claiming the sunshine would help him warm up quicker, and so they had removed the covers from the outside furniture and enjoyed the sunshine.  Without warning, he flung a mental arrow in Lestrade’s direction and laughed when it hit the walls of a shield that held.

“Excellent,” he said approvingly. “That was very good. And now let me see how strong your Mindspeech is.”

******

When Lestrade walked through the main entrance of New Scotland Yard the next morning, he half expected everybody to stare at him, pointing fingers and whispering.  Instead, nobody seemed to notice that his entire world had come to stand upside down and he went through his working days with their insane hours and irregular lunch breaks as if nothing had changed at all, the gruesome case of a young boy’s torso having been found floating in the Thames keeping him busier than ever – and yet, he didn’t feel as exhausted as he used to… well, before that weekend.

For a while both Mycroft and Lestrade kept up the pretence of their meetings being business-related and exercise-oriented, but as Lestrade grew more confident with his new Gifts and started using them with more and more ease, they somewhat reluctantly admitted - if only to themselves - they enjoyed each other’s company for what it was: a carefully developing friendship, and so they made time for each other whenever they could, “Mike” dropping by in the evenings when Mycroft wasn’t travelling, Lestrade spending entire weekends at Mycroft’s flat when he wasn’t buried in his work. 

 

One day a small package was delivered to Lestrade’s office.  Inside, a sturdy leather glove with a three-quarter length cuff, along with a handwritten note, _‘Time to take this outside. –M.’_   He immediately texted Mycroft.

_Got your package. What’s with the glove? –G._

He didn’t get a reply until later that afternoon.  His mobile buzzed, number withheld, as he was on the way to the conference area for an impromptu team meeting and he took the call despite the fact that he didn’t really have time.

“Outside?” he asked in lieu of a greeting and Sally, who was walking beside him, immediately shot him a curious look.  She’d been giving him funny stares over the course of the past weeks but he hadn’t bothered to explain himself.

“Hello Greg.” There was a smile in Mycroft’s voice and Lestrade found he was smiling with him. “After all the theoretical lessons I thought some fresh air and a little teambuilding would be a nice change, don’t you agree?”

“Teambuilding?” Lestrade stopped walking. “As in blindfolded and abseiling?” He motioned for Sally to go on, mouthing ‘be right with you’.

“Abseiling? Hopefully not. I was thinking more along the lines of going hunting together.”

“Hunting?” Lestrade echoed, not understanding.

“Greg,” Mycroft patiently said. “I spend a considerable amount of time as an owl. I must feed that body along with the human one, and I quite enjoy hunting. I think it’s time you learnt how to fly me.”

“Fly you? What – oh!” Realization dawned on him and he felt his face split into a wide grin. “So that’s what the glove is for.”

“You’ve seen my claws.”

“I have indeed. Oh wow. Yeah, I would love that. When?”

“I had expected to be in, uhm, well, abroad this weekend but as the situation has been solved in the meantime, I find myself with the luxury of a whole weekend to spend as I please. I was wondering if you wanted to come to Exmoor with me?”

“Let me see how this meeting goes. I can’t promise anything. I’m in the middle of an investigation but we’re headed nowhere.”

“The Thames murder case?”

“That’s the one.”

“Still no trace?”

“We’re meeting with forensics right now. Listen, I must go. I’ll ring you up later, yeah?”

“Please do.”

Lestrade disconnected the call and rushed into the room, mumbling a half-hearted apology as he sat down next to Sally whose brown eyes bore curiously into him.  He ignored her and focussed his attention on the report of the forensics team.  Despite the depressing fact that there was nothing new or even remotely useful to hint towards either the victim’s identity or the motive behind the crime, Lestrade felt strangely giddy.  A whole weekend away, flying his Owl and spending time outside – it was a boy’s dream come true, and never mind that this boy was well in his forties. 

When he came back to his office, he found it to be occupied by Sherlock Holmes who had the glove in one hand and the note in the other, giving him a look of such outrage and disgust that Lestrade started laughing despite himself.

“Care to share, Inspector?” the consulting detective asked acidly, deep voice booming well into the corridor, making two passing policemen stop and glance inside.  Lestrade closed the door and turned to face Sherlock.

“What are you doing here?” he asked good-naturedly. “I can’t remember calling you.”

“You didn’t,” Sherlock snapped. “In fact, I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Been busy playing catch the birdie, yes?”

Lestrade snatched glove and note out of his hands and sat down behind his desk. “This,” he patted the glove, “is none of your business.”

Sherlock snorted. “I can’t believe you’re seeing my brother.”

“I’m not ‘seeing’ him, Sherlock. We’re friends, ‘s all.”

“Friends.” Sherlock flopped onto one of the visitors’ chairs. “Mycroft doesn’t do friends.”

“And you do?”

“At least I don’t pretend.”

“Neither does he.”

Sherlock’s ever changing eyes zoomed in on him and Lestrade’s shield snapped shut without him realizing it.  Sherlock cocked his head.

“This feels different from how you usually do it.”

“Been practising.”

“With a little help from your… friend?”

“Smart deduction, that.” He ran a finger along the glove’s padded thumb. “Your brother is a very good teacher.”

Something flickered across Sherlock’s face but it was gone before Lestrade was able to place it.  He watched Sherlock drum his long fingers on the desk and leaned back, waiting.

After a while, Sherlock cleared his throat and asked carefully, “Have you Bonded with Mycroft?”

“Have I – no.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.” He met Sherlock’s eyes and shrugged his shoulders. “To be honest, I haven’t given all of this much thought yet.”

“It will change you, you know.”

“What will?”

“All of it. My brother never does anything on a whim. He doesn’t befriend people and he certainly doesn’t spend his time teaching people. There must be something about you.”

An image of blue-and-grey eyes flaring up like electric blue lasers shot through Lestrade’s mind, along with the memory of amber warmth flowing through him and the unshakeable feeling of trust and friendship.  Some of it must have leaked through his shield for Sherlock’s mouth curled up in a lopsided grin. “Ah,” he said, surprisingly softly, “it has begun.”

“What has?”

“You’re changing.”

“Into what?”

“You will soon find out.”

Something cold clutched at Lestrade’s heart and before he knew what he was doing, a question forced its way out. “Is Mycroft doing anything to me?” The moment it was out, he hated himself for that display of weakness in front of Sherlock Holmes of all people.

Sherlock looked up, surprised. “What?” He registered the slightly panicky look in Lestrade’s dark eyes and quickly said, “No. He isn’t. My brother may do a lot of things that I don’t approve of but he will not abuse his Gifts. Never. No need to worry.” He rose and put the collar of his Belstaff up. “Not about that.”

“Then how am I changing?” Lestrade stood up from his chair, too. “I don’t feel any different.”

“Oh, but you will. The Link between you and Mycroft will strengthen and it’ll change your perception of things. You’ve already lost a few pounds and you don’t reek of cigarettes anymore. Your body posture is different, your gait pattern is different and you’ve been putting on muscle.”

“Are you checking me out?”

Sherlock huffed. “Please.” He narrowed his eyes. “It’s the changes in Mycroft that made me aware something was happening in the first place but it never occurred to me to check your potential. Shame, really.” He shrugged. “I should have suspected the moment I saw that owl feather.”

“I still don’t understand –” Lestrade began but then Sherlock leaned across his desk and brought his mouth to his ears, so close that his lips almost touched Lestrade’s earshell. “When was the last time you had a woman?” It was but a whisper, but it made Lestrade freeze to the spot.

Sherlock turned to go and as he opened the door said in a casual tone, “Oh, and by the way, I’m thinking of finding a new flat. Got my eyes set on one in central London.”

“That’s good,” Lestrade said absent-mindedly and missed the knowing grin that was bestowed upon him.  He sat down heavily and stared into space for a while, then sighed and reached for the paperwork that needed his signature, firmly pushing both Holmes brothers into a far corner of his mind.  One thing after the other.

******

At precisely nine o’clock on Saturday morning a sleek silver sports car came to a halt before Lestrade’s house and waited in second row as he stepped out of his front door, travel bag slung across his shoulder.  He locked the door and made his way down the short flight of stairs towards the car.  The driver’s door opened and Mycroft got out.

“Morning, Greg.”

“Hey Mycroft. No driver?”

“I do have a license, you know. And this is my weekend off. Doesn’t happen very often and I will not have it ruined by staff hovering about. I even packed my own bag.” He gave Lestrade a small smile. “Besides, I’ll be travelling with police protection. What more could I ask for?” 

Lestrade dropped his bag into the boot and walked around the car, whistling admiringly through his teeth. “Wow. I’ve never ridden an Aston before. That’s a DB9, right?”

“It is.” There was a hint of possessive pride in Mycroft’s voice and Lestrade suppressed a grin.  Not so different from any other human being after all.

“Oh man, look at the wheels. They’re huge.” He opened the passenger door and slid into the luxurious red seat. “Damn. That’s all leather here?” He carefully touched the centre console. “How long is the ride?”

“About three hours, give or take.”

“How fast is she?”

“517 PS. Sadly, speed limits do apply, even for government officials.”

“Damn,” Lestrade said again and ran his hand reverently across the instrument panel.  He looked up when Mycroft opened the passenger door. “Yes?”

“Would you like to drive her?”

“What, me?”

“Yes, you.”

“You would let me drive her?”

“I’m not offering anything I’m not willing to give. You are licensed and I trust you. You drive.”

It took Lestrade less than the interval between heartbeats to get out of the passenger seat and into the driver seat.  Mycroft settled into the passenger seat, leaned across to explain the instruments and showed him how to adjust the seat, and Lestrade caught a whiff of subtle cologne and noticed a faint dust of freckles across Mycroft’s forehead.  Something in his stomach started to flutter, and Mycroft shot him a sharp glance.

“Are you alright? Would you rather have me drive?”

“What? No no, I’m alright. Just got distracted there for a mo. So, I start the engine how?”

“Just press that button right there.”

Lestrade pressed, and the engine sprang to life with a roar.  He pressed the button that set the automatic to drive, set the blinker and filtered into traffic.

They left London in utter silence, Lestrade caught in a mix of confusion and driver’s bliss, and Mycroft regarding him with fond amusement.  When they got to the M4, Lestrade tentatively pushed down on the pedal and made an obscene sound at the car’s smooth reaction.  A stifled noise to his left made him turn his head and look at Mycroft who was trying very hard not to laugh.

“Laugh all you want, Holmes. This is giving me a serious boner and like hell I’m gonna be silent about it.”

“Far be it from me to deny you your pleasure. It is your weekend off, too. Mind if I put on some music?”

“What do you have?”

“What would you like to listen to?”

“Mhm.” Lestrade thought for a moment. “It’s usually rock when I’m on the motorway but right now I fancy something classical. Something to go with this,” he made a gesture that included the car and them, “us going for a fun weekend in a beautiful car. Would you have anything to go with that?”

Mycroft hooked his phone to the car’s sound system and scrolled through his folders.  He hummed and clicked.  Two mushroom-shaped speakers slid up at either side of the dashboard, and a single flute was heard, playing a lovely little melody, and when it was joined by a joyful violin, Lestrade started laughing.

“Concerning Hobbits?”

“Well, there and back again. Wouldn’t you say it’s appropriate? Off we go, Master Lestrade.”

“Ho-hum. Not so hasty, young shireling. This is too good to be rushed into.”

“Isn’t it,” Mycroft said with a strange undertone, and Lestrade stole a quick glance sidewards.  Mycroft looked ahead, hands on his thighs, twirling the ring on his right hand with thumb and little finger, then tapping along with the music.  Long, elegant fingers.  Not spindly long.  Not soft or effeminate, despite the manicured nails.  Just… very beautiful.  Lestrade forced his attention back to the road. 

“Is that the one ring you’re wearing?”

“No. It’s a gift from a friend.”

“Ah. Good friend?”

“Very good friend.”  _Pain_ seeped through their Link, and Lestrade understood.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You couldn’t know.”

They fell silent once more, lost in thoughts and memories, but after a while Mycroft said, “You recognized the piece after just a few notes. Did you like the movies, then?”

“Yeah, I did. I think I’ve watched the whole thing for at least seven or eight times. I even picked up the books again.”

They discussed Lord of the Rings during the entire ride to Exmoor, Lestrade doing all the driving and enjoying every minute of it.  When they left the motorway, the roads got narrower and the countryside more and more beautiful, and finally they reached a small yet impressive enough country house.  Lestrade pulled into the driveway and parked next to a hunched little adjoining building.  With a groan, he got out of the car and stretched, then looked around curiously.

“This is beautiful. Yours?”

“Yes. It’s my little hideaway spot when I need to be alone for a while.”

They got their bags out of the boot.  Mycroft led the way and Lestrade followed him.  What had looked old and weathered from the outside turned out to be rather modern on the inside, but where Mycroft’s town flat was elegant and aimed to represent, his cottage was cosy and welcoming, furnished in simple, light colours, leaning towards the Scandinavian style.  Lestrade immediately felt at home and started to whistle a cheerful little tune as he stowed the contents of his travel bag into his wardrobe.  The attached bathroom was small but offered more than enough space to move about comfortably, and he quickly splashed some water onto his face.  On his way out he grabbed the leather glove and walked down the stairs to find Mycroft waiting for him.

“Would you like to see the house first, or are you ready to explore the outside?”

It was fairly obvious Mycroft was itching to Shift and go, so Lestrade settled for a compromise. “How about you show me what is where so I get a rough idea of the layout, and then we go outside?”  After what seemed a brief internal struggle, Mycroft nodded and gave Lestrade a quick tour of the house.

The living room was spacious. In its centre sat a sectioned sofa that beckoned to stretch out on its cream-coloured cushions while a heavy club chair and a wide ottoman stood near the fireplace, rivalling for the attention of those seeking to make themselves comfortable. The high-end entertainment system just about made Lestrade's eyes water and he cast a longing glance in the direction of a shelf that held a vast collection of DVDs and BluRays. A dining table big enough for a party of six stood in what looked to be a small conservatory, and upon turning to follow Mycroft into the kitchen, he spotted something that looked like an oversized violin case leaning against a bookshelf. Lestrade made a mental note to himself to find out about that.  Although Mycroft had never mentioned playing an instrument, the idea wasn't too far-fetched. Sherlock played the violin rather well; there was no reason for Mycroft not to be equally talented. After all, they came from the same gene pool.

“Who’s maintaining all this while you’re gone?” he asked curiously, opening the refrigerator and taking note of its contents.

“A local couple drops by once a week to make sure everything is in working order, and whenever I plan to stay, I let them know in advance so they can restock the groceries and so forth.”

“Are they… uhm…”

“No, they’re not. They’re perfectly ordinary human beings.”

“Do they know about you?”

“No. And I intend to keep it that way.”

Two doors next to the staircase revealed a WC and small storeroom for all kinds of cleaning utensils.  Back upstairs, Lestrade peered into two guestrooms of which he occupied the bigger one, both rooms sharing the small bathroom; there was the master bedroom, a generous bathroom and a small study. 

“That’s a very nice place,” Lestrade remarked approvingly. “Very cosy. I could get used to that.”

Mycroft started as if to say something, changed his mind and motioned towards the staircase but stopped in mid-movement and went back into his bedroom to fetch something.  When he returned, Lestrade frowned questioningly at the sight of a bathrobe draped over his arm.

“It’s for when I get back,” Mycroft explained.

“Huh?”

“I can’t Shift with my clothes on.”

“Oh.” Lestrade stopped dead in his tracks and Mycroft bumped into him. “You mean you have to be naked?”

“Greg,” Mycroft said patiently, “it is technically possible for me to Shift with my clothes on but I would get all tangled up in them. I doubt I could get my wings out of my shirtsleeves, and I would need somebody to help me. Don’t worry,” he added with a wry smile, “I will not strip before you. No need to get uncomfortable.”

Lestrade swallowed and hoped Mycroft wouldn’t notice.  Memories of ‘Mike’ sleeping in his bedroom shot through his mind and he wondered if… well.  Better not go there.  He cleared his throat, hoping for a steady voice.

“So what do we do now?”

“I Shift, you put on the glove and carry me outside, and I show you around. And then we go hunting.”

“Sounds good.”

“Take the robe and put it on the Adirondack outside. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Lestrade took the robe and turned to open the door that led to the terrace.  Behind him, he heard the soft rustle of clothes being shed and thought he caught the reflection of pale skin in the windows, but he quickly stepped outside and didn’t look back.  He placed the robe on the wooden chair, slipped on his leather glove and waited.  The view was stunning – trees, flowers and shrubbery, lush green and bright colours, and not a soul in sight. 

The sound of claws on wood made him turn around and he immediately crouched down and offered his arm to his Owl who hopped on without hesitation.

“Hello Myc,” he brought his finger to the bird’s head and scratched between the tufts.  Myc swivelled his head to touch his beak to Lestrade’s skin in a gesture of affection, and Lestrade chuckled, all traces of doubt and second thoughts erased from his mind.

_::Hello Greg.::_

“Let’s go. Time to fly my Owl.”

Myc took him along a small path up to a wooden gate leading to a secluded valley.

_::Snowdrop Valley.::_

“Is it part of your property?”

_::It is. Now let me fly.::_

Lestrade obliged and stretched his arm to the side and up, ducking his head so as not be hit by the Owl’s wings.  He watched him glide across the valley, circling and eventually zoom in on his prey, swoop down and make a kill.  The death cry of the small animal made him flinch but he reminded himself that owls had to eat, too. 

The sun was high in the sky, already powerful although it was not yet summer and he decided it was warm enough to lose one layer of clothing.  He fished for his sunglasses in his breastpocket and put them on before he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it.  He tied it carelessly around his hips and started walking towards were he had last seen Myc. 

It turned out that Mycroft owned quite a bit of land. There even was a small lake that looked very inviting and enough walking routes that would keep him busy exploring for a couple of days, and Lestrade debated with himself whether it would be too much to suggest coming again for a more extended holiday.  He wasn’t sure if Mycroft ever took time off, if he actually could afford taking time off, and whether he’d be at all welcome to stay for longer than a weekend.  

They practised Mindspeech along with flying and landing and Lestrade was grateful for the extra hours of weightlifting and running he had managed to squeeze into his days for working with Myc was nothing if not physically exhausting.  When Myc finally signalled to return home, he didn’t protest.

Myc Shifted the minute he set his claws on the wooden surface of the terrace, having forgotten all about Lestrade’s unease, and Lestrade, his brain still in Anchor mode, had forgotten about the necessary nakedness.  He reached the terrace a couple of moments after Myc and caught a good look at Mycroft’s bare backside as he stood up from his crouching position, saw long, sinewy limbs, a sculpted back with shoulders that were well-muscled and broader than the tailored jackets made them look, and a firm arse.  He inhaled sharply and averted his eyes.

Mycroft tied the belt of his robe and turned to face him. “That was nice,” he said cheerfully. “Hungry?”

“You just had a rabbit,” Lestrade pointed out but Mycroft made a dismissive gesture.

“Luncheon. I’m starving. Let’s raid the fridge.”

“Let me shower first. I’ve been running after you for hours.” He sniffed at his shirt and made a face. “I stink.”

Mycroft looked at him, nostrils flaring slightly. “No, you don’t,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You smell like someone who’s spent a day outside. Rather pleasant, actually.”

Their eyes locked but Mycroft’s face remained almost expressionless.  If at all, there was a glimmer of faint amusement in his cool eyes.

“But you’re right. It’s been strenuous and I guess I should follow your example.” He went to gather his clothes from where he had placed them on the couch earlier and followed Lestrade upstairs.

After a brief shower with water so cold he felt like yelping, Lestrade changed into a pair of faded Levi’s and a soft grey t-shirt and went downstairs into the kitchen where Mycroft was inspecting the contents of the refrigerator, wearing a pair of tan Chinos and a dark green Henley.  Lestrade had already learnt from his weekends spent at Mycroft’s flat that his wardrobe didn’t consist solely of tailored suits, but he was still getting used to the sight of him wearing casual clothes.

They rummaged around refrigerator and pantry and conjured up a tuna pasta gratin with red and yellow peppers and a healthy dose of garlic.  Lestrade threw a green salad together, Mycroft picked a wine to go with their food and when the gratin was ready, they carried two trays into the living room.

“Dinner table or couch?” Mycroft looked at him expectantly and Lestrade said in a firm voice, “Couch. We’re both off duty. Let’s do this properly.”  Mycroft flashed him a grin and they sat down on the couch, each balancing a tray on his knees.

Mycroft reached for the remote control and started flipping through the channels while eating, thoroughly enjoying the luxury of laying his impeccable manners aside for a few precious hours.  Lestrade didn’t seem to mind and looked perfectly at ease eating his dinner on the couch.  They had a brief argument about what to watch and compromised on a series set in ancient Rome that offered enough action and gore to suit Lestrade’s taste and enough historical accuracy to keep Mycroft happy.  When it was over, they carried their trays back into the kitchen, stowing the leftovers neatly away and loading the dishwasher.  Armed with another bottle of wine, Mycroft switched the TV off, sat down on the club chair and graciously let Lestrade pick the music.

They idly talked about wine, food, films and music for a while, then their conversation shifted to the night that had led them to the animal slaughter crime scene, and Mycroft decided to share some of the information he had managed to pull together.

“Weresnatchers,” he explained. “Fur and feathers of metamorphs are extraordinarily valuable, not only because they tend to be a bit better maintained than those of real animals, but they’re highly desired status symbols, too. It’s an extra branch of organized crime, if you will.”

Lestrade listened with concern as Mycroft explained about steps being taken and initiatives being hindered.

“We’re not well received throughout the population. There are still too many superstitious beliefs and ignorant mind-sets out there, thinking we’re an abomination of nature,” he said bitterly, and Lestrade leaned forward from where he was sprawled on the ottoman, reaching for his hand without thinking.  Their fingers intertwined, seemingly of their own accord, and neither man pulled back although Mycroft looked as amazed as Lestrade was feeling, but it felt strangely comforting.  Their Link seemed to be humming happily and so they sat like that for a while, not speaking.  It was Mycroft who eventually broke contact, albeit reluctantly.

“There is one more thing I wanted to explain to you,” he started. “Remember how your night vision seemed so much stronger that night?”

Lestrade nodded.

“It’s called Borrowing, or Sharing. Your channels weren’t open that night but as I have pointed out before, there are things I can do in cases of emergency that would be impossible under normal circumstances, or at least highly immoral. But the ease with which I was able to Share with you made me wonder what else there was but your love for small rodents.” He smiled.

“The Day of the Bowing Squirrel,” Lestrade said, returning the smile.  The day they had noticed each other.  “How does it work, Sharing and Borrowing? Will it come easier now that we’re Linked?”

“Yes, and it will be immensely helpful if we choose to work together as a team.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course we’ll work together. Don’t be daft. So. How does it work?”

“You Reach for the Link, like this.” Lestrade Felt Mycroft Reach for him and he instinctively opened his shield wide.  They Connected, and Mycroft’s eyes started flaring that laser blue.  Lestrade felt _Happiness_ and _Strength_ flood him and he returned images of _Home_ and _Safe_.  Their Link started pulsing and it was like nothing he had ever experienced before.  Anchor and Anchored.  Never alone, never again.  Anything was possible.  Anything at all.

“That’s amazing,” he breathed.

“And there’s so much more, but it’s too early.”

“Like what?”

“As we continue working together, you will be able to slip into my mind while I’m in my owl body. You will be able to see what I see and hear what I hear and yet be in your own body, awake and conscious. This is extremely useful for undercover work, for delicate missions, but it’s also exceedingly difficult and dangerous. It’s not like following a target on a screen, rather it’s been described to me as out of body experience without the bliss of blacking out. It will give you dreadful headaches the first couple of times we’re working on that.”

“I’m not sure if I’m going to like that.”

“Neither am I but believe me, it will come in handy at some point.”

“Hm.” Lestrade worried his lower lip. “How come you can hunt during the day? I thought owls are nocturnal.”

“They are, but I’m not exactly your regular owl.”

“Uh, right. Didn’t think about that." He frowned. "I’ve been doing some reading on owls, you see, but come to think of it, I guess it was a waste of time. You're probably a bit above all that.”

“Nothing is ever a waste of time, Greg. You never know when a random piece of knowledge might come in handy.”

“Yeah, like owls like to lean their upper bodies against a sturdy branch while they’re sleeping?”

“They do. I’ve seen it.”

“Do you?”

“I have, on occasion, when I’m really tired.”

“Oh. Really?” He thought about that. “You know,” he offered tentatively, after a few seconds, “the next time you come over as an owl and you feel tired, you can lean against me. If you want,” he added hastily. “I wouldn’t mind. You’re soft and I like that. As an owl, I mean. You’re soft as an owl, and I like your feathers.” He stopped, embarrassed about his inability to express himself, sure that last glass of wine had turned his brains to jam, but Mycroft didn’t laugh at him.  Instead, he seemed genuinely surprised and a little self-conscious.

“Thank you. That is much appreciated.” He set his glass on the coffee table and glanced at the clock on the stereo system. “Let’s call it a day, shall we? It’s been a lot for you to take in, and there is so much more to do tomorrow.”

They stood up from the sofa and carried their glasses and the empty wine bottles into the kitchen.

 

When Lestrade climbed into bed a little while later, his thoughts kept returning to that brief moment of Sharing, and he idly wondered what being Bonded might feel like.  Would they share… everything?  What if Mycroft took a lover?  Would that break their Link?  What if he took a woman home?  Would Mycroft know?  Would he Feel it?  Would they be able to keep their shields up in moments of such intensity or would they… Feel the other’s arousal?  Did Mycroft even take lovers?  A sudden surge of heat rushed through him as unwelcome memories of long, lithe limbs and strong shoulders shot through his system.  _Freckled_ shoulders, for heaven’s sake.  This detail hadn’t even registered back there on the terrace.  Why did he remember it now?

_‘It will change you, you know. When was the last time you had a woman?’_

“Shut up, Sherlock,” he muttered into the darkness, pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and turned around to lie on his side, angrily beating the pillow into submission.  What he was angry about, he didn’t even know.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade woke the next morning to the sound of birds singing, and not much else.  Very different from London where not even the wee small hours of a Sunday morning were ever truly quiet.  Lying in was tempting but it seemed such a waste of time.  He got up, pulled the curtains back, peered out into what was promising to become a beautiful Sunday morning and a decision was quickly reached.  After a brief trip to the bathroom to use the toilet and brush his teeth he ran downstairs, barefoot and in his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt, to grab a coffee and a light snack, only to find Mycroft sitting at the small kitchen table, a coffee mug in one hand and his tablet computer in the other, frowning at something he was reading.

“Morning, Mycroft,” he said cheerfully and received a somewhat absent-minded reply. “Want another cuppa?” He rummaged around in the cupboards until he found the coffee capsules he was looking for.  Placing two slices of bread into the toaster, he repeated his question. “Another cuppa, Mycroft?”

“Mmh? Ah, yes please. Thank you.”

Lestrade shook his head, grinning, and set the coffee machine to work.  He dropped two lumps of sugar into his mug, then reached for Mycroft’s.  When the second coffee was ready, he took both mugs and sat down opposite Mycroft who looked at him over the rim of his half-moon spectacles.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby. It’s so quiet, I feel like I’m on a whole different planet.”

“Not unpleasant, I hope.”

“Not at all.” He stirred his coffee. “I didn’t know you’re wearing glasses.”

Mycroft immediately reached for his spectacles and removed them self-consciously, and Lestrade said on impulse, “Leave them on, please.”

“They’re for reading only.”

“Oh.” It came out almost disappointed. “Shame. I think you look sexy with them.” The very instant the words left his mouth, he inwardly winced and briefly closed his eyes, embarrassed.  Where had that come from?  Sexy?  He opened his eyes again, hoping his ears weren’t as red as they felt hot and found Mycroft watching him with raised eyebrows.

“I look sexy with my reading glasses on?”

“Well, yeah, you know, Indiana Jones kind of sexy.”

“Indiana Jones?”

“Never mind.” Lestrade cleared his throat, gulped down some coffee and immediately started swearing.

“Burnt your tongue, Greg?” It was delivered with a mocking undertone and something else, something Lestrade didn’t want to think about and so he hastily got up, snatched the two slices of bread out of the toaster, buttered them and sat down again, thinking of a way to steer the topic into a less tricky direction.

“Why are you wearing glasses anyway? I thought owls have superior eyesight?”

“They do, but they’re also farsighted.”

“They are?” Lestrade looked up from his toast, surprised.

“Yes. Owls can’t see anything clearly within a few inches of their eyes and although it’s not quite that drastic when I’m in my human body, my eyes do get tired when I read or write longer texts.”

“Mhm.” He swirled his coffee in the hope of getting it to a more agreeable temperature and took another, careful, sip. “What about that cello case in the sitting room. Do you play?”

“No, I keep the case for decorative purposes.” Mycroft shut his tablet computer down with a swoosh of a finger. “Of course I play. Why else would I keep a cello?”

“Dunno, sentimental value maybe? You have one at your London flat, too?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“There’s a number of things you haven’t seen yet, Greg,” Mycroft patiently said.

“True, that. Will you play for me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Please? I have no idea what a solo cello sounds like.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am. Or maybe I’ve never paid attention. All I know is that it’s part of the orchestra and it’s basically a big upright fiddle.”

“A big upright fiddle,” Mycroft repeated, stunned.  He leaned back and studied Lestrade as one would study an unknown specimen. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

“So. Will you enlighten me, please? Bring me out of the Dark Ages?”

Mycroft huffed, but there was amusement in his eyes. “Dark Ages indeed. Big fiddle.” He got up, shaking his head and placed his coffee mug neatly into the dishwasher, then held his hand out to Lestrade. “Want another one or can I put this away?”

“Nah, I’m good. Here you go. Ta.” He let Mycroft take his plate away, too, got up and stretched his arms above his head. “Mind if I go for a quick run? It’s nice outside and I’d like to get some clear country air into my London lungs.”

“Please do go ahead. I’ll tune my big upright fiddle in the meantime.”

“Can’t wait,” Lestrade said, grinning.  Upstairs, he changed into a faded t-shirt and his running pants and congratulated himself on the fact that he had thought about bringing his running gear with him.

Outside he did a quick stretching routine to warm up and started running at a leisurely pace, following the path that led to Snowdrop Valley and vaulted the small gate with an ease that he would not have expected a couple of weeks earlier.  A lot had changed over the last couple of weeks, however, and he ran on without even thinking about it.  The sun was shining down on him, warming his skin, and all he heard was his steady footfall and his even breathing, blocking everything else out until he was in some sort of running trance.  When he reached the small lake, he stopped and stretched some more, wondering whether the lake was safe for swimming. 

_::It is, but the water’s still too cold.::_

Something brushed across his hair and he almost lost his balance.  Startled, he looked up and saw Myc land on a tree stump.

“Don’t do that again,” he warned. “I don’t want to run back all wet.”

_::You were contemplating a swim, no?::_

“Yeah I did, but not while I’m still in my running gear, and like hell I’m gonna jump in there butt naked. City boy, remember?”

_::We’ll have to come back in the summer then.::_

“I’d like that. If you’ll have me, that is.”

 _::Of course I’ll have you.::_ Myc swivelled his head around and solemnly blinked one of his large eyes which made Lestrade laugh.

“Great, that’s settled then. Lead the way, bird, let’s see if I can follow you.”

_::Catch me if you can.::_

Myc leapt up into the air with a few powerful thrusts of his wings and Lestrade sprinted after him.  Although he didn’t stand a chance of catching the Owl, they still enjoyed playing.  Whenever Lestrade paused to catch his breath, Myc would swoop down and either touch his talons to Lestrade’s back and shoulders or brush his wingfeathers across his head.  He got lucky one time, leapt up and caught the Owl’s tail.  He let go immediately, not wanting to pull out a feather, but Myc’s indignant screech of protest was triumph enough.  Pumping his fists into the air, he howled his victory and ducked away laughing when Myc launched a mock-attack.  Their Link was brimming with joy and Lestrade felt happier and more carefree than he had in ages.  Gone was the ever-present weariness, gone was the feeling of being somehow incomplete and out of place.  Not even the current case was gnawing at him and he didn’t feel the urge to check his mobile the way he usually did.  Oh, he would check his messages eventually, but not now.  Now he had to jump up once more and chase after his Owl who led him around a small clearing and up yet another hill.

They continued their little game of catch and run and he lost track of time and direction but trusted Myc to lead him back safely, and before he was too exhausted.  When the country house came back into sight, Lestrade pulled his t-shirt over his head, spread his arms wide and threw his head back, enjoying the feeling of warm sun on his bare torso and a soft breeze on his skin.  Above him, he heard Myc hoot and he quickly wrapped his shirt around his forearm to shield his skin from the sharp claws.  He held his arm up and Myc landed, closing his zygodactyl feet around the makeshift protection, brushing his feathers gently across Lestrade’s bare shoulders in a gesture of affection before folding his wings.  Lestrade stroked the bird’s soft chest with his knuckles.

 _::You are so beautiful. I can’t stop looking at you,::_ he said, his Mindspeech slow and still a bit hesitant.

 _::Thank you. You have very gentle hands.::_ Myc half closed his eyes in bliss and leaned into the strokes, and Lestrade obliged by scratching between the ear tufts.  He had learned not to stroke the Owl’s back and wings so as not to remove the protective coating from the feathers, unless Myc stayed overnight and had enough time for preening.  On those precious evenings, Lestrade would touch to his heart’s desire.  He rubbed one of the bird’s long legs and Myc softly closed his claws around Lestrade’s finger and bent his head to playfully nibble at it with his impressive beak.  Lestrade chuckled and scratched above the beak with his middle finger, fully aware that both the Owl’s claws and beak could easily snap his finger in half, but never afraid one second.

He brought his arm as close to his body as he could for Myc to sit comfortably and to avoid his arm getting tired too quickly from carrying the large bird, and slowly made his way back to the house.

_::Did you know Sherlock is looking for a new flat?::_

Myc swivelled his head around to look at him. _::No. I was no aware of that. Why do you bring that up now? Is anything the matter?::_

_::No, ‘s all good. Just popped into my head.::_

_::I am glad to hear it. I never understood why he moved into his current flat to begin with. Has he told you where he plans to move?::_

_::Dunno. Doesn’t this lady friend of his rent?::_

_::Lady friend?::_

_::Yeah, Mrs Henson? The one he’s Linked with?::_

_::Oh, Mrs Hudson. Yes, she rents flats, that is correct. Although I can’t see how he plans to pay the rent. Her house is on Baker Street.::_

Lestrade whistled through his teeth. _::Not a bad address. Maybe he’s thinking of a flatshare?::_

Myc clicked his beak, making it sound like the owl equivalent to a snort. _::Flatshare. Who’d want him for a flatmate?::_

_::You never know. There’s all kinds of fellow nutters out there.::_

_::My brother is not a nutter.::_ It came across a bit stiffly, and Lestrade suppressed a grin.  As much as Mycroft tended to heave discreet yet theatrical sighs whenever the subject shifted to his little brother, he was fiercely protective of him all the same.

_::I didn’t say he was a nutter.::_

_::Mhm.::_

They reached the terrace and Lestrade crouched down to set Myc on the wooden floor.

 _::You could just let me hop down, you know,::_ Myc pointed out.

“Valet service.” Lestrade smiled down at him and stepped back. “Mind if I watched you Shift? I wonder how it works.”

_::Certainly.::_

The Shifting process was not much to look at.  There were no sounds of cracking joints or splintering bones, neither was there the gruesome sight of owl limbs stretching into human arms and legs, of skin emerging from the feathers.  Instead, Lestrade’s sight seemed blurred for a few seconds, as if he had accidentally been staring into the sun.  When he blinked his eyes to clear his vision, Mycroft was rising from his crouching position, looking at him with faint amusement.

“Not much to see, is there?”  He reached for his robe and slipped it on.  Lestrade felt his ears grow hot for the second time that day, not understanding why the sight of a naked man made him feel all flustered.  He wasn’t shy about his own body, and stepping into the common shower area after a match with the Met’s football team never made him think twice, let alone look twice.  So what was so special about those long, pale limbs?  Those long, elegant and extremely well-shaped limbs?  Or all these pale freckles covering those strong shoulders, dusting even those legs? Not much to see indeed.  _Dear God, all these freckles._   A small frustrated sound escaped his throat and Mycroft stopped in mid-movement.

“Are you alright, Greg?” He searched his face. “Was I too hard on you?”

“No, I’m good, it was just something I was thinking of.” He raked a hand through his hair. “’s all good,” he repeated, more for his own sake.  Mycroft didn’t seem entirely convinced but let it go, not wanting to dig deeper, and Lestrade nodded resolutely.  “I’ll just take a quick shower. Be right back.”

“I won’t be going anywhere.”

When Lestrade re-emerged a little while later, the smell of yesterday’s leftover food greeted him and his stomach replied with a loud grumble.  Mycroft was nowhere in sight so he quickly laid the kitchen table and checked the food to make sure it didn’t burn.  Having turned down the oven temperature a little, he poured himself a glass of orange juice and walked into the living room to inspect the shelves, noticing the cello propped up in its stand next to a stool.  The movie collection was surprisingly eclectic.  Lestrade had never given Mycroft’s movie taste much thought but if asked, he would have suggested some documentaries and political series.  These were there, too, but so were a few action movies – although not the typical one-man-army stories –, Sci-Fi and fantasy – _The Lord of the Rings_ , obviously, the entire _Babylon 5_ series, _Torchwood_ and the David Tennant _Doctor Who_ series and… he pulled one BluRay case out and stared at it.  _North and South_.  He started grinning.  Well now.  Period drama.  He cocked his head and scanned the scrupulously alphabetized rows.  _Cranford.  Pride and Prejudice._   Dear Lord.  Then again, it shouldn’t come as a surprise – they _had_ watched a Jane Austen film the first night ‘Mike’ had stayed over.

“Dear me. Trust a policeman to find my weak spot upon his first stay at my sanctuary.” 

Lestrade turned around at the sound of Mycroft’s voice, still grinning. “You have a thing for ridiculous neckties and shiny boots?”

“They’re called Hessians and yes, I find the outfits rather dashing.”  He took the film from Lestrade’s hands and put it back into the shelf. “Food’s ready. Hungry?”

“Yeah, I can eat.”

“You can always eat.”

“Hey now,” Lestrade protested. “It’s not like I’m stuffing myself. More often than not it’s just a limp sandwich on the run.” 

“Then I will have to make sure you’re properly fed. Can’t have my Anchor collapse, can I?”

“That wouldn’t be helpful.”  He followed Mycroft into the kitchen and obediently sat down at the table after his offer to help was declined.  “You know,” he observed, “I would never have thought you to be so domesticated.”

“Years of living on my own, Greg.” A plate with steaming food was placed before him. “Sadly, there’s no such thing as a house elf, and it’s either employing a 24/7 household staff or learning to do a few things myself.”  Mycroft offered the wine bottle with a questioning look and when Lestrade nodded, poured two glasses and sat down. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you.”

They ate in comfortable silence, each lost in his thoughts.  When they were done, they loaded the small dishwasher and Lestrade made a coffee for himself and poured another glass of wine for Mycroft who accepted it with a small smile.

“I’m afraid our weekend is coming to a close sooner than I expected,” he said with regret in his voice. “I have to be back in London by seven so I can catch a plane.”

“What? Damn!” Lestrade stopped blowing on his coffee and looked up, disappointed. “We will have to leave in –” he checked his watch, “in one and a half hours, two at the very latest. Why? What happened?”

“A situation has come up that requires my presence.” He made a face. “I’m sorry but I can’t share this with you. Suffice to say I will have to pack a suitcase for at least three to four days, and I am not looking forward to it.”  With the wine glass in his hand, he motioned towards the living room. “Care to hear the upright fiddle?”

“Yeah, please. If you’re OK with it? Playing for an audience, I mean?”

“Greg,” Mycroft said patiently. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t comfortable with it.” He took another sip of his wine, sat the glass down on the coffee table and walked to where his cello was.  With gentle hands he took it from its stand, sat down on the stool and placed the instrument between his knees. “Anything particular you would like me to play for you?”

“No, uhm, I can’t think of anything right now. Just play something that you like.”

“Very well.” He tuned the instrument once more and when he was satisfied, he stared into space for a moment, pursing his lips, and when he seemed to have reached a conclusion he put the bow to the strings and started playing, eyes closed, no music sheets required.  The tune sounded familiar but Lestrade couldn’t place it.  A soundtrack, of that he was sure, but he couldn’t remember the film.  He sat in silence and listened as the bittersweet melody emerged from the instrument, singing of loneliness and hope, of sadness and joy, and it touched a place deep within his heart that he kept a firm lock on.  He lowered his Shield experimentally and Reached out to Mycroft who opened his eyes at the tentative Touch, lowering his Shield in return.  Their eyes locked and Lestrade felt his heartbeat quicken under the blue-and-grey intensity, not sure what to make of the message sent through their Link and underlined by the instrument’s mournful voice.  The violin with all of its drama and musical mood swings was the perfect instrument for Sherlock with his mercurial temperament but it would never do for Mycroft.  Just like the man who played it, the cello chose to remain in the background most of the time, unobtrusive and understating, but once it came forth, its quiet beauty and subtle nuances were breathtaking. 

With quite some effort, Lestrade broke their eye contact and focussed on Mycroft’s hands instead.  Big mistake, that.  Long fingers elegantly and effortlessly danced along the instrument’s neck, pressing the strings down on the finger board, and the… finger vibrato, if one could call it that, made him wonder if the fingertips of Mycroft’s left hand were calloused and if they were hard to the touch.  The right hand held the bow in a firm yet gentle grip, pulling it expertly across the strings, and it was then that Lestrade realised with horror that his prick – his _prick_ , for heaven’s sakes! – responded with interest to the images he wouldn’t permit to surface.  He hastily emptied his coffee mug and hoped Mycroft hadn’t picked up on that last train of thought.  He cast a sideways glance into his face, but his eyes were closed once more, giving nothing away, and their Link transported nothing but happiness and calm.  Given Lestrade’s extensive experience with the Holmes brothers, however, it was safe to assume that his confusion and irrational musings – for irrational they were – had not escaped the razor-sharp eyes and senses, but unlike his younger brother, the older Holmes sported impeccable manners and would certainly, hopefully, not dish this… _nonsensical_ _impulse_ out at a later and possibly highly inappropriate time.

Mycroft played a few more tunes for him, some of which he recognized, such as the _Godfather’s_ love theme and an Ennio Morricone title, some others were unknown but he liked all of them, and gradually his confusion died down and he relaxed again.  When Mycroft put the bow down and looked at him with a smile in his eyes, he cleared his throat, trying to find the right words.

“That was amazing,” he said in a hoarse voice, “fantastic. I had no idea it would sound like that. I like it so much better than the fiddle.”

“The violin,” came the automatic correction, but it was delivered lightly, “and thank you. It makes me happy that you enjoyed hearing me play.” With a sigh he stood up, placed the instrument back on its stand and stretched. “I’m afraid we must get ready now.”

“Shame,” Lestrade said with heartfelt regret. “I could stay for a couple more days.”

“So could I but alas, duty is calling.”  He started wiping the instrument and the bow, put the cello back into its case and fastened it, then loosened the bow before putting it neatly away, too.

“Will you play for me when we are in London?”

“If you wish.”

“Yeah, I really really liked it.”

“Very well then. Your wish is my command.”

“Don’t say that,” Lestrade warned, grinning. “One day I might take you up on that.”

“Please do. I’m looking forward to it.” There was no mistaking the undertone but this time, Lestrade did not look away.  Instead, he raised an eyebrow and held Mycroft’s gaze.

 

They took turns on the ride home, both checking their messages and updating themselves on what had happened during their brief absence.  Mycroft even rang his assistant and held a monosyllabic conversation with her that consisted of sounds and grunts and short interjections, but judging from his grim face, the news weren’t good news, and when he ended the phone call, he stared out of the car window for quite a while, and Lestrade almost heard the whirring of the wheels and cogs inside that massive brain.

His messages were only a few, but just as frustrating.  Although the post-mortem carried out before the trip to Exmoor had established that the young boy could have been in the UK for no longer than a few days, the potion found in his stomach left them clueless.  Donovan had texted him speculations that the found ingredients might be connected to ritual magic but at that point in time it was only speculations, nothing more, nothing less.  He let out a frustrated groan.  Murder was never fun, but a dead child was something else entirely.

“Anything I can do to help?” Mycroft offered but Lestrade shook his head.

“Don’t think so unless you have an idea what else to do to identify a limbless torso?” It was against regulations to share findings of an on-going investigation with an outsider but from what Lestrade had gathered about Mycroft’s line of work, it would take him but a few mouse clicks before he had all the information at the ready, and so he filled him in with the details.  Mycroft looked straight ahead, eyes on the thickening traffic on the motorway as they headed towards London, but he suggested a few things that showed he was listening closely.

“Have you considered having the boy’s bones analysed?” he suggested finally.

Lestrade looked at him. “I don’t think they’ve done that yet. I don’t know all that much about forensics. Let me text Donovan.”  He typed a message, uttering a few curses when he hit the wrong buttons but managed to eventually send the message.  Donovan’s reply came almost immediately.

“It’s being discussed,” he read and Mycroft nodded resolutely.

“They should do it. It will determine his geographical origins which should prove very helpful, given the forensic findings about the boy not having been in Britain for a very long time.”

“Mhm, makes sense. I’ll talk to Shielding tomorrow.”

“DCI Shielding?”

“My boss, yeah. You know him?”

“Sturdy fellow of middle height, with a fierce moustache?”

“Yep.” Lestrade chuckled. “Very fierce moustache.”

“Good man.”

“Is he one of us?”

“He is. District leader. Very reliable.” He gave Lestrade an amused look. “'One of us’?” he repeated.

“Yeah, well, you know. Shifter or Were? Or even Anchor?”

“Were.”

“Really? What is he? No, wait, let me guess.” He Projected an image.

“Black standard schnauzer,” Mycroft confirmed, laughter in his voice. “And believe me, you do not want to mess with him.”

“Hell no I don’t. Not in a suit and certainly not with fur on.”  Lestrade grinned.  Something shot through his mind and he turned to face Mycroft. “Do you think he knows?”

“Knows what?”

“About me being an Anchor. Being your Anchor, especially. He seemed to know you.”

“He certainly does. He’s an active part of our monthly district meetings. To answer your question, no, I don't think he knows about you... and me.” 

The tiny pause escaped Lestrade who worried his lower lip. “You know, the morning after the animal slaughter,” he noticed Mycroft wince at the mention of that horrible crime, “I had to report in with him and when I mentioned the owl, he practically grilled me. Remember I told you about it when we met for lunch that day?”

“You did mention it but didn’t go into detail.”

“First I thought he was testing me for insanity but when I said a big eagle owl with blue eyes had been visiting me for a while, he almost froze to his chair and I thought he was going to call the guards.”

Mycroft smiled one of his tight-lipped smiles. “It’s been known I haven’t partnered with anyone in a very long while so it’s no big surprise he was startled.”

“Startled? I thought his eyes were gonna pop out of his head.”

“Has he approached you about it since then?”

“No. And he hasn’t tried to get into my head.”

“You’re shielding yourself well.”

“Thanks. I had a good teacher.”

This time, the smile was real. “No need to thank me. Well, the good Chief Inspector is going to be in for a major surprise then.”

“Why is that?”

“I intend to introduce you to the community during our next meeting. They need to know I don’t work alone any longer, and they need to see you and hear your Mindvoice, too.”

“What for?”

“As my Anchor, every metamorph, and I mean each and every metamorph, will be at your service in times of need. You lose your way while out running in unfamiliar territory? Call upon a hare or a nuthatch. Car accident and you’re injured? Reach out and you will be found.”

“But I thought Mindspeech is limited to the Link you’re sharing?”

“It usually is. Not with you, and not with me. Our positions being what they are, we can Speak to everyone within our community.”

“Our positions? Does that mean I’m like the, uh, chief Anchor around here?”

“Throughout Great Britain. Yes, you are.”

“Fuck. Me.” Lestrade slumped back against the leather seat and rubbed his hands across his face. “And it’s taken you all this time to finally tell me? Sneak it in on the ride home?”

“You weren’t ready.”

“Damn right I wasn’t. Don’t think I am now.”

“Oh but you are. Your Gift is quite formidable and we shouldn’t waste any more time. I’m afraid your workload will double with your additional duties.”

“I was afraid you would say that.” He sighed, but there was no resignation in it.  He swivelled in his seat once more to face Mycroft. “Does that mean I’ll get to work on the animal killer case?”

“The Weresnatchers? Your help would be most welcome.” He turned his head to glance at him and chuckled when he saw the determined look on Lestrade’s face. “Dear me, the copper has awakened. Welcome to the team, Inspector.”

The car came to a halt just before Lestrade’s house. “We’re here.”

“Already?” Lestrade peered out of the window. “We are,” he said, sounding surprised. “Wow. I really wasn’t paying attention.”

“You weren’t.” Mycroft pressed the start/stop button and got out of the car.  Lestrade climbed out as well and went to get his bag out of the boot.  With a loving gesture he let his hand glide across the Aston’s sleek bonnet.

“Good-bye, my lovely,” he murmured with such adoration in his voice that Mycroft started laughing.

“Have you Bonded with my car and I haven’t noticed?”

Lestrade huffed. “She’s a beauty and it was a pleasure driving her.”

“I guess this means you’re not averse to another roadtrip? Provided we find another free weekend.”

“Not averse at all, quite the contrary. And we will find another weekend, I’m pretty positive about that.”

“Good. It pleases me to hear it. Well, Greg, I’m afraid I must get going.”

“Plane to catch, I know.”

They stood for a moment in awkward silence, not ready to say their good-byes just yet, unwilling to end their weekend, then Mycroft motioned as if to embrace Lestrade but kept himself in check at the very last instant and held out his hand instead.  Lestrade clasped it with both hands.

“Wind to thy wings. Light to thy path.” He wasn’t sure where the words came from but they seemed right, and Mycroft placed his free hand on his shoulder, finishing the quote. “Dreams to thy heart.”

Their Link pulsed _Warmth. Trust. Friendship._ , and when Mycroft turned to get into the Aston, Lestrade stood before his front door and followed the car with his eyes until it was out of sight.  Only then did he turn the key and stepped into his small hallway.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

“We have therefore come to the conclusion that the victim is of African origin, between four and eight years of age and possibly subject to a ritual murder. Sergeants Okoro and Sedgwick of the Cultural and Communities Research Unit have volunteered to come on board to assist this investigation.” Shielding indicated two police officers standing to his left in the background. “Both are experienced officers, and Okoro has played a vital part in nailing the murderer of little Nabou last year.” Appreciative murmur was heard throughout the meeting room but the tall sergeant did not move a muscle, his dark face an impassive mask. “Welcome to the team, officers.”

Sedgwick exchanged a glance with Okoro and when he nodded, she stepped forward.

“Good morning. Thanks to Chief Inspector Shielding for his kind welcome. Although circumstances are less than pleasant, we’re both looking forward to working with you.” Her voice had a soft Irish lilt to it, and Lestrade sat up a bit straighter. “When we were first presented with the case last week, we assumed it was a medicine murder. However, as the boy’s torso was untouched we are fairly certain that a medicine murder can be ruled out. We are now looking into the possibility of a ritualistic murder.”

“It’s been known for a while now that children are being trafficked into the UK to be sacrificed.” Okoro’s deep voice boomed across the room. “An uncircumcised boy, for example, will lend extra power to a spell. Also, there are HIV patients who believe that having sex with a small child will cleanse them from their disease. And then there’s the paedophiles who keep little black house slaves.” He spread his large hands in a helpless gesture. “The list is long and ugly.”

“But we will do what we can to find out what happened to little Adam.” ‘Adam’ was the name given to the boy as there was no positive identification so far. “If only to find out who he was, to give him back his name.” Sedgwick nodded curtly. “Thank you.”

 

After the briefing, Lestrade walked up to the desk where the files were spread out. He leafed through the forensic report and winced at the photos.

“Unpleasant, isn’t it?”

He turned around and looked into a pair of very blue eyes. Sergeant Sedgwick had approached from behind and was now looking at him earnestly. “‘Unpleasant’ isn’t the word I would have chosen.”

“What would you call it then?”

“‘Awful’ comes to mind. ‘Horrible’. I’m looking at these and wonder what kind of person would do that to a child. Mind you,” he put the photos back into the folder, “murder is always a horrible thing, but when a child is concerned…”

“…it leaves us helpless and angry,” she finished his sentence and nodded. “Especially so when the murder’s been carried out in a cultural context so unlike ours. These people don’t kill for the power rush. They kill because they believe it’s the right thing to do if they want to help others.”

“That doesn’t make it any better, or easier.”

“No, it doesn’t. But try telling that to a practitioner who needs to work a major spell.”

Lestrade huffed. “Spells.”

“Don’t ridicule it, Inspector. Faith is a powerful thing.”

“And so’s the law.”

She cocked her head. “You really believe that?”

“‘course I do. Why else would I be here? It is my belief that those who live here need to acknowledge our laws. If that doesn’t meet with their beliefs, well, they’re welcome to return where they’ve come from.”

“Isn’t that a bit narrow-minded?”

“It might look that way but I’m just tired of hearing the same explanations over and over again. Bad childhood – couldn’t help myself. He was eating a pork sausage – an insult to my religious belief. She stole my husband – so I taught her a lesson.” He took a deep breath. “If I travel to Singapore and get caught snogging my boyfriend I’ll get fined a ridiculous amount of money and there’s nothing I can do about it. But kill a kid over here and all you get is a slap on the wrist because you’ve been carrying out your religious beliefs? I don’t think so.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“What?”

“You just said, if you got caught snogging your boyfriend.”

“I was just saying that to get a point across. I don’t have a… boyfriend.”

“Ah, good then.” She smiled.

“What is?”

“You not having a boyfriend. That means I can ask you out for lunch.”

“You could ask me out for lunch even if I had a boyfriend, you know,” he pointed out with a wink. “What was that about narrow-mindedness?”

“Wouldn’t be the same.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” She held out her hand. “Ann Sedgwick.”

“Greg Lestrade.”

“I know. I followed the Rawlings case earlier that year. Got me… interested.”

“Oh yeah?” he said again, returning her smile. Her hand felt good in his. Small, but with a strong grip, and his smile widened into a grin. Who knew, maybe there was something good to be had from this case. Horrible and shocking it might be, but this interdepartmental teamwork looked promising.

_When was the last time you had a woman?_

_Working on it, Holmes._

“Shall we?” He indicated towards the exit and was rewarded with a delightfully dimpled smile.

Oh yeah. Definitely working on it.

******

 _::Sir, this lead may well be worth looking into.::_ Anthea’s Mindvoice was polite but insistent and Mycroft suppressed a groan.

_::I am afraid you’re right. Have you checked the coordinates?::_

_::All checked and confirmed. I circled the location myself but it was getting dark and my night vision is limited, unfortunately.::_

_::No need to explain. Please have Terry pick me up instead of Sebastian, and please e-mail me your latest update.::_

_::Will do, sir.::_

Mycroft rubbed his hands across his eyes. A reconnaissance mission to Dartford of all places was not what he had planned for this evening, even less so after an intercontinental flight. His meetings and negotiations had dragged on for longer than anticipated and he had boarded his jet two days later than intended. Not being able to Shift for almost five days had left him itchy and irritated and he longed to spread his wings and fly, preferably to Lestrade’s house. He was not going to lie to himself about that. Feeling the strength and the joy of a Link once more was something he had not dared hope for after his last Bond had broken all these years ago, and there was undeniable power in physical contact, too. Being stroked and petted by his Anchor’s warm and big hands soothed his feathers in more than one sense and although a protective mechanism prevented inappropriate actions and intentions of a sexual nature while the Anchored was in his or her animal shape, the human part of his brain remembered all too well. It wasn’t difficult to conjure up fantasies of those hands on his bare skin, and he had woken from vivid dreams on more than one occasion, painfully hard and wanting so much he hurt. Tending to himself only provided superficial physical relief; what remained was a longing for something he was unlikely to get. He respected the boundaries Lestrade had set and he would not destroy their Link just because he couldn’t hold himself in check. After all, Lestrade had placed his trust and his well-being into Mycroft’s hands, offering his strength and his loyalty in return, far more than Mycroft had ever expected. What they had found was precious and he would not endanger it. Still…

A soft chirp announced an incoming message and he yanked himself out of his train of thought. He opened Anthea’s report and familiarised himself with the layout of the abandoned firework factory.

 

“Almost there, Mr Holmes,” Terry announced and Mycroft nodded his agreement. The partition slid up to allow for privacy while Mycroft shed his clothes. He Shifted and the car came to a halt a few moments later. Terry opened the door and the Owl hopped out.

_::That will be all, thank you, Terry.::_

“Would you like me to wait, sir?”

_::That won’t be necessary. It’s only some 20 miles from here to London, that’s hardly a distance.::_

“What if a situation comes up?”

_::Then I will call for help.::_

“Very well. Good luck.”

 _::Thank you.::_ He pushed himself into the air, leaving the car behind and soon the derelict buildings came into view. Old iron sheds, set well apart from each other, were spread out in a landscape of overgrown bushes, along with what remained of the old manufacturing buildings. A perfect hiding spot. He dropped lower and soundlessly circled the site, Shield open to catch any signals. One of the sheds caught his attention and he landed next to it with a _thump_. The soft whining of fox cubs crying for their parents could be heard and Myc angrily clicked his beak. There was nothing he could do for now but it was all the confirmation he needed and he walked away from the shed to find a better spot to launch himself back into the air.

“What’s that big bird doing there?”

He froze and swivelled his head around. How could he possibly have missed the presence of these humans and their dogs? He swung himself up, just in time to escape a pack of snarling Rottweilers charging at him. One of the dogs, a powerful male, jumped up and almost caught his tail. He heard the strong jaws snap and beat his wings harder to bring distance between himself and the angry dogs.

“That’s no ordinary owl. Get him!”

The sound of guns being cocked was unmistakable and Myc felt a surge of panic.

“Leave the guns. Call in the air force, you stupid fuck.”

The air force? What on earth…

“Let the birds take care of him, I say.” It was followed by bellowing laughter and then something else… something croaking. Crows. _Please, no crows._ While it was getting dark, there was still enough light for the crows to see and there was no misinterpreting the sounds coming closer. It was a flock of crows, a large one, and it just might quite literally become a murder of crows if his strength faltered by one wing beat. Maybe he shouldn’t have sent Terry away after all.

He snapped his Shield shut and flew for his life.

******

Lestrade stared at the headlines and grit his teeth.

_Thames Murder – Child Sacrifice in London_

_Are Our Children Safe?_

_Little Boy Brutally Mutilated_

No doubt the press would soon be hacking away at the police about not doing their job properly. He grunted, gave the newspaper stand one last sinister look and turned to go.

“Lestrade! Oi, Lestrade, is that you?”

There was only one person who pronounced his name Les-Trade and he turned around grinning, his foul mood vanishing into thin air.

“Mackles! The hell you doing here, mate?”

He pulled the wiry Welshman into a bear hug and patted his back heartily. Mackles returned the gesture, only one of his hands landed on Lestrade’s bum.

“Get your filthy hand off my arse,” Lestrade mock-scolded, not offended in the least, and Mackles stepped back to give him a thorough once-over.

“Ha. Thought something was different. Got yourself a hard bod, my man. What happened? Young lover keeping you fit?”

“Shut it, you Welsh fairy. Stopped smoking and picked up running again, ‘s all. What’s brought you here? London marathon’s over, innit?”

“Yep, over. Finished 87th, in case you’re interested.” There was a hint of pride in Mackles’ voice and Lestrade made an appreciative sound.

“Not bad. Only 86 more to go, eh?”

“Bite me.”

“You wish. Oxford not exciting enough anymore?”

“Oh but it is. You wouldn’t believe what these academics are up to when they get bored and start feeling underappreciated. No, I’m here for my big sister’s fiftieth birthday. Family gathering and all tomorrow.” He rolled his eyes and groaned but it was just for show. Lestrade knew the Mackles were a tightly knit family.

“Got time for a pint?” he suggested after a glance at his watch.

Mackles checked the time, too, then whipped out his mobile phone and typed a brief message. “Actually no, I don’t, but I will make time for a pint with a silver fox.”

Lestrade huffed. “Silver fox, bah. I look ancient.”

“Distinguished, mate, distinguished. Look at this,” he pulled at his own ginger strands, “like a snotty firstgrader. But you? George Clooney ring a bell? He’s all grey and he’s hot as fuck.”

“Not my division.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” He squinted at a street sign. “Where are you taking me?”

“Remember the _Feathers_? Not too far from here.”

“Yeah I remember. Decent food, good beers. Lead the way.” He moved as if to link arms with Lestrade and Lestrade dodged him, laughing.

The pub was a few minutes’ brisk walk away and as it was only just beginning to fill up, they managed to find a corner table. Lestrade ordered two pints and they settled in, toasting each other.

“You look great, mate,” Lestrade wiped some foam off his upper lip. “What have you been up to? Still in search of Sergeant Hathaway?”

Mackles inhaled some beer and started coughing uncontrollably. “You fucking idiot,” he finally managed, wheezing and snorting. “How dare you bring up James Hathaway while I’m deep-throating this fine lager?”

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade lied, never able to resist teasing Mackles about his weakness for the TV show _Lewis_ and one of its main characters, Sergeant James Hathaway.

“No you’re not.” He fumbled in his jeans pockets for a tissue and noisily blew his nose. “That’s your way of getting back at me for grabbing your arse, right?” He coughed once more and took a deep gulp. “And a fine arse it is. Come on now, you’ve not only been running but weightlifting, too. Might as well admit it. Last time I saw you you were in a sad shape, and now look at you.”

“Yeah okay, I’ve been lifting some weights.”

“New woman, eh?”

“Nope.”

“New man?”

“Hell no,” Lestrade exclaimed, scandalised. “I’m doing it because… I’m doing it for myself.”

“Right. I smell a midlife crisis coming on.”

“Whatever. So. Oxford. What’s new and exciting?”

They tossed bits and pieces about some of their ongoing and past investigations back and forth and Mackles curiously asked, “Say, are you still working with that freak consultant of yours? Shylock or whatever the hell his name was?”

“It’s Sherlock and yeah, I’m still working with him. He’s not a freak, though. He’s a bit odd, I will give you that, but I will not have him called freak within my earshot.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that you told me such wondrous things about him, makes me think maybe he’s a bit different.”

“Oh God yeah, different’s one way of putting it. Just last week he got into a major fight, and I mean major, with my chief forensic scientist. I mean, that was –” He interrupted himself and snatched Mackles’ left hand. “What’s that?”

The golden wedding band gleamed in the subdued light and Mackles made a noise between a snort and a huff. “What’s it look like?”

“You’re married?”

“Yep.”

“Since when? Why didn’t you tell me? What’s his name?”

“Last December. We wanted to keep it as private as possible, and her name is Helen.”

It was Lestrade’s turn to choke on his beer. “A woman?”

“Helen’s a woman’s name last time I checked.”

“But you’re as gay as they get. You’ve been out since I’ve known you and that’s been, what, some twenty years now?”

“Something like that. Never been in the closet, really.”

“Why a woman? For appearance’s sake?”

“Because I love her.”

“What?” Lestrade noticed he was gaping and quickly closed his mouth.

“It happens,” Mackles pointed out, a little indignantly.

“Yeah ‘course it does, but you? I would never have thought you fancied… women.”

“I don’t. It’s just her.” He took a deep breath as if to say more but Lestrade held up his hand.

“Wait a sec. I need to get me another pint. Want one, too?”

“Please.”

Lestrade got up and went to the bar, glancing over his shoulder a few times to stare at his friend in utter disbelief. Jeremy Mackles, one of the very few openly gay men to join the Metropolitan police force at a time when it had been a hush hush thing. It still wasn’t easy for gay policemen, let alone for lesbian policewomen, but back then it had been something akin to a sensation. Perfectly alright if you were Freddie Mercury but a copper? Might as well wear a t-shirt saying ‘kick me’. And now this man had just looked him straight in the eye and told him he had married a woman. Lestrade shook his head, paid for the pints and made his way back to their table.

He found Mackles stare into space with an absent-minded look on his face and pushed the glass his way. “There you go, mate.” Mackles didn’t react and Lestrade looked at him sharply. His eyes were focussed inwards but he didn’t have the blank facial expression people usually had when they zoned out. Instead, he looked as if he was listening intently. Lestrade narrowed his eyes, an idea forming in his head. He lowered his Shield by the merest of fractions and experimentally Reached out.

_::Mackles, what are you doing?::_

The other man started, jerking his head up.

_::Can you hear me?::_

_::Who is this?::_ His Mindvoice was distant but clear enough, and his Welsh intonation was unmistakable.

 _::It’s me, Mackles.::_ Lestrade lightly tapped his fingers to Mackles’ knuckles. Hazel eyes bore into his and he lowered his Shield a bit more. _::It’s me.::_

“But you, uh, you, the _fuck_ , Lestrade!” He opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Are you kidding me? When did that happen? I mean, you never, uh…”

“I didn’t know until a few weeks ago.”

“What?”

With a deep sigh, Lestrade slumped against the worn out padding of the wooden seat and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It all started one afternoon when I had a late lunch in the park…” He was hesitant at first but then the words came pouring out. Talking to Mackles had always been easy because he knew how to listen, and it felt good to talk to somebody about what was happening to him, somebody other than Mycroft, somebody who had known him for a long time. They might not be in close contact anymore ever since Mackles had transferred to the Thames Valley Police to work in Oxford but they had never truly fallen out of touch, and each time they met they picked up right where they had left off. Lestrade made sure not to mention Mycroft’s name or his position, didn’t even mention his sex, merely said it was an owl he had Linked with, and Mackles listened, interjected a monosyllabic remark here and there and asked a couple of short questions for better understanding. When the words died down, he leaned back.

“Well,” he said, and again, “well.”

“Well what?”

“I’m tempted to say I’ve known it all along but of course I didn’t. I never suspected a thing. Your channels must have been blocked really well.”

“Yeah, that’s something I can’t figure out. You see, I have all of these memory snippets, my Gran telling me about Grandpa being a beagle and my mother getting all upset about it, and I now _know_ I used to talk to animals when I was little, and they talked back, and all of my life I thought I'd been dreaming this up.” He stared into his glass. “And one day, it all ended. I don’t understand what happened.”

“Why don’t you ask your Bonded? I’m sure she could explain.”

“He,” Lestrade corrected, “he’s a bloke, and we’re not Bonded. Linked.”

For the second time that evening, Mackles coughed up his lager. “Come again?”

“He’s a bloke,” Lestrade repeated and frowned when Mackles made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “What’s so funny about that?”

“It’s just, well. Look at us. I like men, and my Bonded partner’s a woman. You like women, and your Bonded partner’s a bloke.”

“We’re not Bonded.”

“Not yet.

“You make it sound like it’s inevitable.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“The two of you. Anyway, have you never thought to ask him?”

“Actually, no, I haven’t, strange as this may sound. But there is so much to learn and to do, I just don’t think about it when I’m around him.”

“He’s taking you through a crash course then?”

“Damn right he is. I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard in all of my life.”

“I believe you. You have to make up for all those years you lost. Well,” he took a generous swig, “here’s my theory on what might have happened. You once told me your Pa died in a car accident when you were little, right?”

“Right. That’s what I was told.”

“What do you remember about him?”

“Not much, really. I was four when he died. He was big, with huge shoulders,” he smiled, a little sadly, “but then, all grown men are big to a child. He had very dark eyes, and Gran used to say I was his spitting image.”

Mackles circled the rim of his glass with his right index finger. “You see, they say that when a Bond breaks, it’s the most excruciating pain. It’s like your heart gets cut out with you wide awake and when it’s done, you’re left raw and bleeding. When you Bond, you become one. You think your Link is intense? You have no idea. I cannot imagine what it would feel like having Helen taken away from me. I’m not sure I would survive it.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “A mother’s bond with her child is strong, even more so if the mother’s an Anchor. I believe your Ma wanted to protect you by cutting your channels off. I believe she was mortally afraid you’d have to endure the same pain she was going through. And all that stuff about animals talking to you and your Gran telling you about your beagle Grandpa, well, it might have overwhelmed her.”

“So she Reached inside and just shut me down?”

“Yes, I believe she did.”

Lestrade exhaled slowly. Why had this never occurred to him over the course of the last weeks? Why hadn’t Mycroft ever mentioned it? After all, he _had_ told him about the dream he’d had about his mother the night before he spent his first weekend at Mycroft’s flat.

“What about my Gran?” he finally asked. “How come she didn’t go mad with grief?”

“Not everyone grieves the same way, Greg,” Mackles said softly. “Your Gran survived the war. Her generation had a whole different way of dealing with grief. Maybe she was hoping to teach you as you grew up and that gave her strength. Maybe she used her powers to help or teach others, who knows.” Acting on impulse, he reached across the small table and squeezed Lestrade’s hand. “Don’t think badly about your Ma.”

They sat in silence for a while, then Lestrade removed his hand. “Tell me about Helen. How did you meet?”

“Oh, we met in a marathon group. She’s a runner, too.”

“She a copper?”

“Nope, she’s a prep school teacher.”

“Is she the Anchor or the Shifter?”

“She’s a Dog. A border collie. She’s beautiful. Want to see a photo?” he asked, hopefully.

“Sure, why not.”

Out came the smartphone and Mackles scrolled through his files until he found what he was looking for. “Here,” he said proudly. “That’s my Helen.”

Lestrade took the offered phone and looked at a snapshot of a slim brunette with striking blue eyes and short, tousled hair. She was wearing denim shorts and a t-shirt saying ‘Keep calm and call the Doctor’ and was sitting on something that appeared to be an old castle wall.

“She’s lovely,” he said.

“She is, isn’t she.” Mackles beamed and chose another photo. “Here she is again.”

The photo showed a black and white border collie jumping up to catch a Frisbee.

“She looks like she’s got a lot of energy.”

“Oh hell yeah, she does. She goes running with me and no matter how long the distance, she always gives me these looks like, ‘that’s it?’.”

Lestrade huffed. “Don’t I know it.”

“You do?”

“I do. I’m flying the Owl and he gives me hell.”

“So that explains it then.”

“What?”

“Your level of fitness. What kind of Owl is he? I’m guessing he’s not one of the small ones then.”

“I wish. He’s an eagle owl.”

“Oh God, you poor thing.” Mackles started laughing. “Bet he’s heavy, too.”

“Not that heavy. Maybe six, seven pounds. I wouldn’t want to carry him around on my arm, but he either flies or if I do carry him over a longer distance, he sits on my shoulder.” He started toying with one of the small flyers announcing next week’s karaoke night and folded it into a neat little harmonica. “What’s it like then for you, being with a woman?”

“At first, it was strange,” came the prompt reply. “You know, pieces missing here, extra bits there. I’d never been with a woman before –”

“What? You never shagged a woman before you knew you prefer blokes?”

“No. Did you ever shag a bloke before you knew you prefer women?”

“Uh, no.”

“See. I’ve always known I liked boys better than girls but when you Bond, all those neat little pigeonholes just don’t matter anymore and you realise it’s all about the person, not the gender. She’s the world to me and I can’t imagine ever being with anyone else again.”

“So Bonding made you straight then?” Lestrade asked, intrigued.

Mackles snorted. “No, of course not. Nothing makes you straight. Nothing makes you gay. You’re gay, or you’re not. Like I said, it’s just her. I still don’t fancy women. When I look around,” he gestured to indicate the pub, “you’re the hottest bitch in here –,” it was Lestrade’s turn to snort, “and not one woman comes even close. That’s how straight I’ve become.”

“But if you ever wanted to shag a bloke?”

“While I’m with Helen? Not bloody likely.”

“That’s not what I meant. Could you?” An image of shoulder-length chestnut curls and luscious red lips shot through his mind.

“Of course I could. Like, if you were to finally offer me that firm arse of yours, nothing would smite me down if I went for it. I don't wear electronic shackles, you know.”

A sigh of relief escaped Lestrade.

“What? Is that a yes?”

“In your dreams. But there’s this hot Sergeant on the team –”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, and I think she fancies me. She’s been coming on to me over the last couple of days and man, she’s something.”

“I see. And you were worried you couldn’t get it up with her, being Linked and all.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be doing just fine. Like I said, if you ever –”

“Not fucking happening.”

“Come on, mate, show some heart.” He batted his lashes and Lestrade made a rude noise. “Anyway. I couldn’t hide it from her, obviously, and knowing her, she might even tolerate it, but –” he spread his hands in a helpless gesture, “I don’t want to. I chose her, and that’s all that’s to it. I chose her.”

Lestrade worried his lower lip but didn’t say anything. Mackles shot him a sharp glance.

“You’ve been thinking about him, haven’t you?”

Heat rose from Lestrade’s neck, making it impossible to lie. “Not in terms of wanking over his smile –” Ginger eyebrows shot up in mock disappointment but Lestrade wasn't paying attention, “but I’ve started to notice things I never noticed about other blokes.”

“Such as?”

“Freckles on his shoulders,” it was delivered with a tone of exasperation, “and his hands. I mean, he’s got really long fingers. Not spindly,” he hastened to add, “but strong and, yeah, well, beautiful. He plays the cello, you know.”

Mackles stifled a laugh. “A musician’s hands, dear me. And freckles. Lestrade, my man, you are in trouble.”

“I know,” Lestrade said miserably and this time, Mackles did laugh.

“No need to be so glum about it. Nothing has happened yet, or has he tried to fondle you against your will?”

“Fondle me – certainly not. The idea is absurd. He would never lower himself to such vulgar behaviour.”

“Posh, eh?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Does he know you’re not gay?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“My problem is – ah fuck it.” He banged a fist on the table. “I don’t even know what my problem is. He’s never done anything to make me feel uncomfortable. It’s all in my head.” He gave his empty beer glass a gloomy stare.

Mackles bumped his knee against Lestrade’s. “Give it time, Greg. It’s all new to you. Put some trust in your partner. He sounds like an alright bloke to me. Come on, you’re in good hands. And you got yourself a little sergeant to play with, right?” His mobile chirped and the screen lit up. He squinted at the message, “ah bugger”, and typed a quick reply.

“What is it?”

“Big sister checking on baby brother.” Stretching his arms above his head he yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. “That was some really deep conversation we just had. All grown-up, getting in touch with our emotions and such.” He patted his chest and Lestrade frowned.

“What are you doing?”

“Wondering if I’m growing a pair of tits from all that unmanly talk.”

Lestrade started laughing. “You’re such a shit. Just don’t spit on the floor to demonstrate your manliness, please.”

“Damn.” With a jerk of his chin he indicated towards the far corner. “Pool table just got free. Fancy a game?”

“Watch you poke at a bunch of balls with a long stick? Not sure if I want to see this.”

“Ah come on Gregs, you know you want it.” Grabbing his beer glass, he stood up and threw Lestrade a challenging look. “Or have you forgotten how to handle a cue?”

“I certainly haven’t. Prepare to die, Welshie.”

They played two games of pool and Lestrade won both of them. Mackles blamed it on Lestrade bending over the table, offering his behind for all the world to stare at but Lestrade sensed there was something else.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked after they had put the cues away and made their way to the exit, having decided it was time to call it a day. “You used to be a lot more fun to beat. You didn’t even give me a battle.” Holding the door open with his left hand, he started to slip into his jacket.

“How did you do it?” came the counter question.

“Do what?”

“How come you can talk to me?”

“We’ve been talking all evening,” Lestrade said, puzzled.

“That’s not what I meant.” Mackles took a deep breath. _::This is what I meant. How can you Talk to me outside your Bond?::_

“What? Oh.” Lestrade froze. That. He had forgotten about that. “I, uhm, well, the thing is…” He was groping for words and Mackles reached out and caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

 _::What are you?::_ he insisted. _::How come you can do it?::_

 _::I dunno,::_ he started but then settled for the truth. _::I think it’s to do with hierarchy.::_

 _::With hierarchy?::_ The grip around his chin tightened and Lestrade pulled back, rubbed his chin and glared at his friend.

_::Mind not breaking my jaw?::_

_::Sorry,::_ came the automatic response. _::Greg, who is this bloke of yours?::_

_::I haven’t really figured out the org chart yet but I think he’s the boss.::_

Mackles backed off a few steps and stared at him in utter disbelief. “Are you telling me you’ve Bonded with The Owl?”

“Would you yell any louder?” It came out sharper than he had intended and Mackles’ eyes widened.

“Sorry,” he said again. _::But Gregs, The Owl? Do you realize what this means?::_

_::I haven’t given it much thought.::_

_::You have no idea. He’s been working alone for, well, over ten years, unanchored, all by himself, with only that harrier reporting back to him. And yet, he’s never slipped, never lost focus. I can only imagine how powerful he must be. And now he has chosen you to be his Bonded.::_ He shook his head. _::I hope my useless brother-in-law still has that Glenmorangie. I need to get drunk.::_ He slapped Lestrade’s shoulder and started laughing. “DI Lestrade. Anchoring The Owl. _The_ Owl. I guess you’ll be making your first public appearance at the next gathering, yeah?”

“Probably,” Lestrade said unhappily. “Do you think I’ll be accepted?”

“Why not?”

“Well, for once, we haven’t Bonded. It’s just a Link.”

“Oh, but you will Bond. Make no mistake about that. Power like that is drawn to each other. Laws of attraction or something like that. It’s only a matter of time now.”

“You think so?”

“Positive.”

“But I, uh –” he started, uncomfortable, but Mackles held up his hand.

“Hold it right there. There’s more than one way to Bond. Just let it come. Don’t fight it.” He checked the time on his mobile. “Listen mate, much as I’d like to continue our little girlfriend session, I really must go. Sis is gonna kill me if I don’t show up on time for her midnight drink.”

Lestrade checked his watch. “It’s not even close to midnight yet. Need to wash your hands and clean your nails?”

“That, and I need to get drunk. Glenmorangie, remember? I wasn’t joking.” He shifted on his feet, then pulled Lestrade into a fierce hug. “Welcome to the community, Greg. It’s good to have you on board, and I’m happy for you. This is going to be good. Just you wait and see.”

Lestrade returned the hug. “I hope so, Jerry. I hope so.”

With a last hearty slap on the shoulders, they said their good-byes and Lestrade lingered until Mackles managed to hail a cab before he turned and went back to NSY to get his car.

 

While he waited for his microwave oven to _ping_ , he checked his watch for what must have been the fiftieth time. No message from Mycroft, and he couldn’t reach him via Mindspeech either. Only this morning he had confirmed his arrival at Heathrow airport and had asked whether Lestrade would be at home that night but that had been it. He hadn’t heard from him since then, and he was beginning to worry. What if he tried to - what the heck.

_::Anthea, you there?::_ he ventured. 

The reply came at once.

_::Yes.::_

_::Any news on Mr Holmes’ arrival?::_ Although he was fairly certain Anthea had been informed about their Link, he hadn’t been officially introduced in his new position and so had decided to keep their contact within its usual businesslike formalities.

_::There’s been a delay and he had to rush into an impromptu meeting.::_

_::I see. Thank you.::_

_::You’re welcome, Inspector.::_

An impromptu meeting. There had been an odd undertone to Anthea’s precise Mindspeech but he lacked practice in deciphering Mindvoices as he did ‘proper’ voices and so had to take her words at face value, so to speak. With a sigh, he took the plate from the microwave, put it on a tray and went into his living room. He flipped through the channels and chewed on his beef chow mein without paying attention.

Something was wrong. He Felt it, and it was making him restless and fidgety. He carried the tray back into the kitchen, not hungry any longer, returned to his sofa, dropped his Shield and opened his Channel wide, trying to send some sort of mental beacon through, hoping it would reach Mycroft.

He Felt his presence before he Heard as much as a syllable and his head snapped up.

 _::Greg, please, I need you. Can’t… can’t hold up for very much longer.::_ There was nothing of his usual calm in Myc’s Mindvoice. It sounded utterly exhausted, and Lestrade jumped up.

 _::Where are you?::_ He barely managed to keep his own Mindvoice down, not wanting to yell while Myc was so clearly distressed.

_::Approaching your garden. Please, I…::_

Lestrade pushed his French doors open with a force that would normally have him worried about breaking them, but right now he would have kicked them in without flinching. He ran outside and skidded to a stop in the middle of his tiny piece of lawn. Shielding his eyes against the rain, he searched the nightly sky for signs of his Owl, grateful for the gaps between the clouds that allowed for the moon to cast a silvery light across the surroundings. He turned in all directions. There. A black dot made its way towards him, coming in from the east. He remembered what Mycroft had told him about Borrowing and how he had Shared some of his night vision with Lestrade the night he brought him to that terrible slaughter scene, and with a deep breath tried to fling a mental life line along their Link. He Felt the moment Myc connected, it was like clasping hand to wrist. He could now make out the Owl’s shape as he came closer.  Something was wrong with his flight pattern. The elegant glide was unsteady and irregular, there was wing flapping where wings weren’t supposed to flap, and Lestrade froze to the spot, cold fear spreading in his chest.

 _‘Oh God please don’t let him be hurt. Please let him be alright,’_ he prayed to whoever was willing to listen.

 _::Greg, I can’t…::_ Myc’s Voice was barely audible and Lestrade spread his arms wide.

_::I’ll catch you.::_

And he did. Myc tumbled from the sky like something tossed from a plane and although the owl wasn’t really heavy, the impact still sent Lestrade sprawling on the grass. He clutched the wet bundle of feathers to his chest and lay motionless for a moment, anxiously Searching Myc for signs of injury or abuse, not daring to physically examine.

 _::Are you hurt?::_ he asked, trying to force the rising panic out of his Mindvoice and his heart.

_::Fine,::_ came a weak reply. _::Tired. So tired.::_

_::Let’s get you warm and tucked in then.::_

He scrambled to his feet and carried Myc inside, cradling him in his arms like an infant. Inside, he carefully placed him into his corner of the couch and ran into the bedroom, rummaged around his closet for an old and soft blanket or towel, and when he found what he wanted, dashed back into the living room. Myc sat motionless in his corner, sleeping lids half closed, wet feathers fluffed up, looking miserable and uncomfortable. It would have made Lestrade laugh if circumstances were different because Myc wore his plumage like Mycroft wore his bespoke suits – not one feather out of place, radiating elegance and distinction. All he radiated now was fatigue and unhappiness.

Lestrade gently wrapped the towel around him and started patting him dry with the utmost care, making cooing, comforting sounds. Myc held on to their Link all the time, drawing strength from Lestrade, and again, under different circumstances Lestrade would have laughed and asked if they were on hand-holding terms.

When the owl was sufficiently dry, he stood up from his crouching position with a groan and thoughtfully looked down at the bird.

“I don’t want you to sit here all by yourself tonight. What if something happens to you? You’re half comatose.” He cocked his head. “You know what? You’re sleeping in my bed. I’ll make you a warm little nest and if you need me, I’ll be right there.”

Myc blinked his large eyes sleepily and Lestrade nodded.

“Good then. You wait here. I’ll be right back.”

In his bedroom he built the promised nest with some more towels and a small throw, pushing his own bedding aside, then went back into the living room to fetch Myc. With gentle hands he sat him down and fluffed a second pillow up, “if you want to lean against something soft,” then stripped out of his wet jeans and shirt, leaving them on the floor, and climbed into bed in his boxers.

 

He woke up in the middle of the night when something stirred uneasily next to him. He turned around and reached for his Owl, finding naked skin instead. Mycroft had to have Shifted sometime during the night; his skin was cold as ice and he shivered uncontrollably. Without thinking, Lestrade moved closer, pulled the sheet up to cover both of them and threw an arm around Mycroft, drawing him against his chest.

“Come here, love,” he mumbled in a voice thick with sleep, “let me warm you.”

He pressed himself against Mycroft’s back and thighs, holding him in a sure embrace, and the last thing he noticed before he drifted back into sleep was the feeling of cold skin warming up to his body heat and Mycroft relaxing in his arms.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, Mycroft woke up to a feeling of complete inner peace and slowly blinked his way from sleep to awareness, savouring that precious state of mental twilight while it lasted. Lestrade was still sound asleep, a warm and solid presence wrapped around Mycroft’s slightly taller frame in a protective manner which Mycroft found both endearing and disturbing. Endearing, because he didn’t think himself in need of protection; disturbing, because this was something he could all too easily get used to. Lestrade had snaked one of his legs between Mycroft’s and his arm lay around his waist, his tan a sharp contrast to Mycroft’s pale skin.

He closed his eyes and tried to keep his breath steady to delay the inevitable moment of Lestrade waking up to find himself in bed with another man. A naked man, for that matter. A naked man against whose bare behind a cotton-clad morning erection was pressed in happy ignorance of its owner’s sexual preference. Quite an impressive erection by the feel of it and Mycroft suppressed a sigh, hoping Lestrade wouldn’t recoil from him in a fit of homophobic panic.

Behind him, Lestrade stirred, tightened his grip around Mycroft’s waist, made a sleepy, content sound and rubbed his face against Mycroft’s shoulder, his stubble eliciting goose bumps and causing a not unsubstantial amount of blood to rush south. Mycroft held his breath and waited. _Now_. Lestrade stilled and confusion seeped through the Link as the DI struggled from slumber into consciousness. Instead of yanking himself away in disgust, however, he gently loosened his grip and carefully brought some distance between their bodies. He paused as if to check whether Mycroft was awake or still asleep and when he seemed to have reached a conclusion, lightly placed a hand on Mycroft’s arm.

“Morning, Mycroft,” he said, voice still rough. “Sleep well?”

Mycroft exhaled slowly, almost giddy with relief, and turned his head so he could peer at Lestrade who returned his gaze with concern in his eyes. Concern, not disgust.

 _Thank heavens._ “I did, thank you.”

“And are you… okay? Not hurt, no bruises?”

He ran a brief internal system check, then shook his head. “I’m fine. Each part of me feels just as it should.”

“Good. That’s good.” Lestrade sat up and rubbed a hand across his face. “Glad to hear it. What now?”

“My driver can be here in less than twenty minutes.”

“What?”

Mycroft turned around so he came to lie on his back. “I can have my driver pick me up in less than twenty minutes,” he repeated.

“But why?” The look he received was one of complete bewilderment. “Are you in a hurry to leave?”

“No.” It came out hesitantly.

“Good. You’re staying for breakfast then. You must be hungry after last night, and I want to hear all about it.”

He opened his mouth to politely decline but a loud rumble gave him away. With a rueful grin he put a hand on this stomach. “I guess there’s your answer.”

“Excellent.” Lestrade pushed the sheet off his legs and got out of bed. “What do you want to eat?”

“Whatever you have. Except for cereal. I hate cereal.”

“What, no Cheerios?”

Mycroft made a face and Lestrade laughed. “Shame. I was hoping to seduce you with a bowl of chocolate Cheerios.”

“Much as I hate to deprive you of your illusions, Inspector, but it’ll take more than chocolate-covered sugar rings to seduce me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” A dark eyebrow quirked up. “It’s in the way that you use them.”

“How do you –” He held up a hand when he saw a devilish smile curl Lestrade’s lips. That was a subject he’d rather not broach right now. Not while he was still naked and in Lestrade’s bed. “Let’s not discuss seduction before some basic personal hygiene issues have been addressed, yes? Morning breath is so unattractive.” He paused as the ugly truth dawned on him. “Which reminds me…” A sigh. “You wouldn’t have an extra toothbrush and some clothes I might borrow?”

Lestrade scratched his chest, cocked his head and grinned. Definitely devilish, Mycroft decided. He sat up, pulled his legs against his chest, placed his forearms on his knees and tried his best to appear pitiful.

“You could always wrap the sheet around yourself. Toga-like, you know.” Lestrade stepped back and eyed Mycroft with unholy glee. “You’d make a great Roman.”

“Do you want to hear me beg?”

“Now wouldn’t that be something?” With a chuckle, he turned around and opened his wardrobe. “Nah, I’m not that cruel. Let me see.” While he went through his clothes, Mycroft took the chance to let his eyes wander along the DI’s body. All that running and weightlifting at the Met’s gym had added strength to a body that had never looked particularly out of shape to begin with. Maybe he was growing a little soft around the middle but it was hardly noticeable, and Mycroft liked what he saw. Liked it a lot, actually. Well-defined muscles shifted beneath smooth skin with every move, not beefy but lean, like those of a boxer. Strong calves, powerful thighs and a nice, firm arse. He wondered what Lestrade would look like in Daniel Craig-style swimming trunks and the thought made his brain hurt. Well, not only his brain. An unwelcome memory of a hard cock pressed against him only minutes ago made a frustrated little sound escape his lips before he had a chance to control himself. Lestrade’s head snapped around.

“Anything the matter? Are you alright?”

Thank God he was more experienced in shielding himself than Lestrade was in picking up signals – yet – and he managed to meet his eyes without so much as a blink.

“I was just thinking how unsatisfying all this is. I hate being unprepared.”

Lestrade mulled this over. “Well,” he finally said, “I guess you can deposit a spare suit here and a few pants and socks, too. And shoes. Just in case. Not that I want you to ever fly for your life like that again, but in case another emergency arises, better safe than sorry, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you. That would be most helpful. Not that I plan to impose myself –”

“Nonsense. You’re not imposing. I’m your Anchor, remember? You’re supposed to come to me for help. You’re welcome to stay whenever you feel like it, understand? Here," a pair of black cotton joggers, a grey t-shirt, a pair of boxers and socks flew his way. “The joggers are probably too short and I’m not sure about the socks, either. It’ll do until your driver arrives.” Lestrade re-appeared from behind his wardrobe door and turned around. “Let me use the bathroom first, unless you really have to go?”

“No, I’m fine,” Mycroft quickly said. “You go first.”

“Good. Out in a minute.”

When Lestrade was out of sight, Mycroft flopped back on the bed and covered his face with his arms. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to appear unfazed by the DI’s attractiveness. The more he got to know him, the more he felt drawn to him. And it wasn’t physical attraction alone. He knew younger and more beautiful men than the greying Lestrade; lithe Shifters and Weres willing to sell their parents for a night with him. Power was a strong magnet and unlike his brother, he possessed a healthy sex drive and had no intention to pretend it was otherwise, and so he had taken a lover every now and then without giving it much thought. However, pleasant enough as those encounters had been, not one of them had caused a Link to stir to life, let alone make him long for a Bond. It had taken Lestrade but a few weeks and Mycroft was finding it hard to remember how he had shouldered all of his responsibilities without an Anchor to ground him, and the blind trust with which he had tumbled from the sky the night before, not doubting for a second he would be safely caught, was yet another proof of how strong their Link had grown. Lestrade’s Gift and the new tasks it entailed had swept down on him at an unusually late point in his life; his whole world had come to stand upside down and yet he had accepted it with a pragmatism that kept Mycroft amazed. Even more, he had revealed a gentleness that Mycroft had not been prepared to see for the DI tended to appear a little rough around the edges when met in his official capacity, not gruff but, well, unpolished. No diplomat material, that much was certain. No beating around the bush or wasting time on niceties for Greg Lestrade.

He listened to the sounds coming from the bathroom. The shower was running and conjured up images of water cascading down Lestrade’s body. What would he look like with his head tilted back, rivulets of water and soap running down his chest and along his thighs? He groaned. Best not go there. He would have to get up as soon as Lestrade was done, and he’d rather make it to the bathroom without being found out.

With a grunt, he swung his legs out of bed and reached for the joggers Lestrade had flung at him. The material was soft, obviously well-worn, and smelled faintly of detergent, and when he put them on, they had an acceptable enough fit although his legs were definitely longer than Lestrade’s. He looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror next to the wardrobe and grinned. The trouser legs ended mid-calf and the waistband sat low on his hips. He patted his stomach. Could be better, but could be a lot worse, too.

On bare feet he walked into the living room and looked around. It looked a lot different through his human eyes than through his Owl eyes, familiar, yes, but unfamiliar at the same time. It was neat, sparsely furnished yet comfortable enough not to be impersonal. Newspapers and runners’ magazines lay cluttered on the coffee table, along with a coffee mug and two remote controls. The brown sofa held an array of colourful cushions, a neatly folded green throw lay on one armrest and one third was covered by another throw of a brownish-beige colour. A single feather lay on it and Mycroft smiled. So that was his, Myc’s, spot. He touched the cushion that was assigned to him. Lestrade was taking his Owl and its needs very seriously but Myc much preferred leaning against his Anchor when he was tired, feeling his body heat and being caressed while dozing off.

_::Sir?::_

He frowned at the unwelcome intrusion. _::Yes, Anthea, what is it?::_

_::Is everything alright?::_

_::Fine, thank you.::_

_::Will you need to be picked up somewhere?::_

_::Not yet. I’m with Lestrade and I’ve been invited to stay for breakfast.::_

_::I see.::_

_::It would have been rude to decline.::_

_::Of course.::_ There was faint amusement in Anthea’s Mindvoice and he chose not to take the bait.

_::I will be in touch.::_

_::Very well, Mr Holmes. I have taken the liberty of clearing your schedule until ten thirty. The Assessment Staff meeting could not be shifted. Sorry about that.::_

_::That was very considerate. Good thinking.::_

_::Thank you.::_

_::Tell Terry to be on stand-by in about one, maybe one and a half hours.::_ He confirmed Lestrade’s address. _::Please have him bring the garment bag I had delivered to the office. The blue one, not the brown.::_

_::Understood.::_

_::And the files for the Staff meeting.::_

_::Certainly.::_

_::Thank you. That will be all.::_

_::Enjoy your breakfast, sir.::_

He smiled thinly but didn’t reply. A discreet cough made him turn around. Lestrade stood in the doorway, a towel slung around his hips and another across his shoulders, hair still wet and standing up in all directions.

“Bathroom’s yours.”

“Thank you.”

“I put an extra towel out for you, and a toothbrush, too.”

Mycroft nodded his thanks and made his way to the bedroom to pick up the rest of his borrowed clothes. When he passed Lestrade, he stopped and sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

Lestrade frowned. “Sandalwood, I think. My body wash. Got a sample from Sally the other day when she came back from her quick shopping tour.”

“Your sergeant’s buying you body care products?”

“Hell no. She went shopping and was given a sample to try. Said she doesn’t use men’s products and asked if I wanted it.” He brought his forearm to his nose and took a sniff, too. “I think it’s nice. Don’t you like it?”

Mycroft bent forward, almost touching his nose to Lestrade’s shoulder, and inhaled. “Sandalwood,” he murmured, “with a touch of bergamot and cypress. Classic, woodsy, and just a little zesty.” He straightened, the beginning of a smile tipping the corners of his mouth. “It suits you. I like it.” Their eyes met and he thought he saw a faint glimmer of amber in Lestrade’s dark eyes. Without waiting for a reply, he spun on his heels to collect his things before he did something stupid. Like licking up that one droplet running down the side of Lestrade’s neck. Did Lestrade even know he was a walking temptation?

He used the toilet, then stepped into the small shower cabin that was still fogged over, and he reached for the sample bottle of the body wash Lestrade had used. He recognised the brand; he had bought his own body products there for a while, too, although he had favoured another of their product lines, one that had a fresh, crisp scent to it. He squeezed some of the product on his hand, rubbed it in and inhaled. For the second time this morning he conjured up images of Lestrade standing under running water, strong hands gliding along his body as he rubbed the body wash into his skin, down his chest and between his legs. Mycroft cupped his balls, squeezing them experimentally, then fisted his hardening shaft and gave a few rough tugs. _If only…_ He gasped and yanked the thermostat into the other direction, barely managing to hold back a yelp when ice cold water rained down on him. He would not start wanking in Lestrade’s shower and watched with grim satisfaction as his erection shrivelled into oblivion, then went about his business as quickly as possible.

By the time he stood before the mirror, dressed in boxers, joggers and t-shirt, brushing his teeth, all improper thoughts about his host had been firmly pushed into a corner of his mind, gagged and bound and silent, and when he left the bathroom, he was greeted by the smell of fresh coffee, toasted bread and eggs. Lestrade stood with his back to him, dressed in one of his non-descript shirts and suit trousers, shirtsleeves rolled up, still in his socks. When he heard Mycroft pull one of the folding chairs from underneath the extendable kitchen table, he turned around and greeted him with one of his easy smiles.

“OK with eggs and mushrooms on toast for breakfast? It’s the quickest I could think of.”

“Lovely, thank you.”

“I wasn’t sure if you like tea or coffee for breakfast but as I only have PG Tips I thought coffee would be nicer.”

“Coffee is fine, thank you.”

“Good.” Lestrade reached for a coffee mug and paused. “I only have a regular coffee maker, so there’s no cappuccino or latte option.”

“Greg, what are you so apologetic about? Regular coffee is perfectly fine.”

“Good,” Lestrade said again, relief in his voice. “Milk or sugar?”

“Just a dash of milk, please.”

“Coming right up.” He took something like a small jug out of the microwave. “I warmed the milk, hope that’s OK. I hate cold milk in my coffee.”

“So do I.”

“Here, I’ll be mother.” A choked sound made him look up. “What did I say?”

“‘I’ll be mother’?” Mycroft repeated, trying hard not to laugh at Lestrade’s sheepish expression.

“That’s what my Gran used to say,” Lestrade explained, “I guess it kinda stuck although it’s been ages.”

“Don’t apologise, Greg,” Mycroft said again. “Don’t ever apologise to me. It just made me laugh because I sometimes say it, too, and Sherlock hates it with a passion.”

“Sherlock hates most things with a passion.” Lestrade filled his own mug. “Or at least he pretends he does. Secretly he’s pleased when he’s being fussed over.”

“So you noticed that, too.”

“Yeah. Took me a while to figure it out but yeah. Much as he likes to appear prickly, he can be amazingly sweet when the mood takes him.”

Mycroft looked up, surprised. “I haven’t seen that side of him in a long while.”

“Of course you haven’t.” He placed a plate with eggs and mushrooms on toast before Mycroft. “You’re the big brother and therefore a natural nuisance.” He sat down opposite Mycroft. “Eat,” he commanded. “I bet you last ate on the plane.”

“I did,” Mycroft admitted and looked down at his food. Simple as it was, it still made his mouth water and he happily tucked in. He noticed Lestrade was pushing his food around on his plate, obviously chewing on something other than toast, and lowered his cutlery.

“Greg, what is it?” he asked cautiously.

“Oh, I was just thinking – it’s just that I’m – ah bugger.” He swallowed and started coughing when some breadcrumbs landed in his windpipe. Hot coffee didn’t help and he coughed some more. Mycroft waited patiently.

“Listen, Mycroft, I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” He chose not to comment on the fact that Lestrade was apologising again.

“I’m sorry about crawling into you the way I did.”

“Crawling into me?” Mycroft frowned, not understanding.

“In bed. I mean, while we were sleeping. I was all over you. I’m sorry. That must have been awkward. I mean, you came to me for shelter and I was all clingy and grabby. I guess I’m still not used to sleeping by myself. And if that makes me sound like I’m a cuddler, then I don’t care,” he added defensively.

“You weren’t… grabby. Nor clingy. I’m the one who has to apologise. You offered shelter to an Owl and woke up with a naked man in your bed. _That_ must have been awkward.”

“Not at all.” Lestrade made a dismissive sound. “It’s not like you were the first.”

“The first what?”

“Naked man in my bed.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“One day, you must meet my friend Mackles. Ran into him the other day, by the way. It’d be interesting to see if you two get along. He’s been chasing me forever and no matter whether he crashes at mine or I at his, chances are he wakes up in my bed. Naked, most of the time. And quite by accident.” He stirred his coffee, grinning. “S’ppose he thinks one touch of his magic wand will get me all wet and willing.” Mycroft made a choked noise and Lestrade snorted. “Sorry. That was crass. I didn’t mean to say you were waving your – ah fuck,” he interrupted himself, “this is getting better and better.”

“It is,” Mycroft replied drily. “Now that we have both apologised, let me assure you I have no intention to, uh, wave anything at you, hoping for you to succumb. I’m grateful you didn’t fall into a fit of misguided masculinity, you know, being a tough copper and all.”

“I’m not all that tough and gay isn’t exactly a disease, is it.”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“See. No harm done.”

“No harm done,” Mycroft repeated slowly. “You amaze me.”

“Why? Because I don’t run away screaming?” He put a bit of toast and eggs into his mouth and continued, chewing, “I never understood what the problem was. I mean, you can’t help who you fall in love with, right? And just as I won’t jump every woman walking by, I assume a gay bloke won’t jump every man passing his way. We all have our types, right?”

“Mhm.”

“And just because it’s not my cup of tea, who am I to tell you what to do? Besides, if I feared my virtue was about to be compromised,” he wiggled his brows, “believe me, I know how to fight dirty.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Besides, I could think of uglier blokes to wake up to.”

“Thanks. I’m relieved to hear you don’t find me lacking.”

“Tosser.” Lestrade balled up his paper napkin and flung it at Mycroft who caught it in one hand. “You know what I mean.”

“I believe so. Please do continue.”

“You’re actually not bad at all. Once you’re out of your three piece-armour, you’re all sinew and muscle. I don’t get Sherlock’s cake jokes. Never really have, and now even less.”

“They’re a childhood relict. And I like cake.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“I used to be a chubby teenager.”

“Really?” Lestrade narrowed his eyes and looked Mycroft up and down from where he was sitting. “Quite a fluffy little owl then, huh?”

“Very fluffy,” Mycroft confirmed.

“Well, you’ve grown into your wings very nicely.”

“Thank you.” He felt his lips curve into another smile. That was something else he liked about being around Lestrade. He made him smile, and he liked the feeling. He didn't have an awful lot to smile about during his days. He looked up from his plate and found Lestrade’s dark eyes fixed on him, an expression in them he dared not interpret. They locked eyes for a moment, just as they had outside the bathroom, then Lestrade blinked and bent over his plate to study his arrangement of eggs and mushrooms. After a moment of very concentrated chewing, he looked up again and said in a business-like tone, “So. Where did you come from yesterday?”

“Dartford. There’s an abandoned firework factory –”

“Wells,” Lestrade nodded. “Heard of it. Another forgotten place.”

“Indeed. Anyway, we received word from some of the local force that there was something off going on. Patrol disappearing, blind spots, unusual comings and goings.”

“Blind spots?”

“No reception for either mobile devices or Mind communication. Hardly ever a natural phenomenon.”

“Mhm.”

“When I arrived at the airport yesterday there was a report of sound enough evidence for me to look into the matter myself.”

“Mycroft!” Lestrade sounded annoyed. “You went in there all by yourself? With no back-up?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes decisions must be taken quickly.”

“And risk your life? I don’t think so.” Lestrade brought his flat hand down with a force that made the plates rattle and Mycroft winced. “You will not do it again, is that clear? That’s what I’m here for. I’m your back-up, get it? I will not have you go on another one man mission. God Mycroft, you barely made it here! What if you…” He rubbed a hand across his face. “Don’t do that to me, Myc!” His voice was raw with emotion and Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat. “We’re a team now.”

“I know, Greg, and I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“No, you didn’t.” Lestrade took a deep breath. “Go on then. What happened?”

Mycroft closed his eyes when waves of fear and agony flooded his memory, smells of pain and death, and the crying of the fox cubs echoed in his mind. The memories of all that anguish threatened to overwhelm him but this time, the all too familiar nausea didn’t come. This time, he was safely held in place by an unwavering presence. Grounded. Anchored. He forced his eyes open and saw Lestrade had come to a crouching position next to him, one of his hands on Mycroft’s left knee, the other held in a white-knuckled death grip. When Mycroft loosened his grip and tried to let go, Lestrade covered both his hands in his own. “Not alone anymore, Myc,” he said, “don’t you ever forget it. I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”

Mycroft nodded, not trusting his voice.

An alarm went off, making both of them start, and the spell was broken. Lestrade looked at his watch and cursed.

“Damn, team meeting in thirty. I’ll be late.” He jumped to his feet and cursed again when his knee made a plopping sound. “I’m sorry, Mycroft, I really have to go.” He disappeared through the kitchen door with an “Are you OK?” over his shoulder.

“I am, thank you, Greg. Thanks for everything.” He cleared his throat. “Would it be alright if I changed into a more appropriate outfit here? My driver has been instructed to bring one of my garment bags and I’d rather change here than in the car.”

“What?” Lestrade walked back into the kitchen, struggling with his tie, and looked up at that last remark. “Change in your car? Out of the question. Of course you’ll change here. Wait.” Loose ends of his tie dangling around his neck, he opened one of the drawers and searched around. “Ah. Here.” He dropped something metallic on the table. “My spare keys. You want them?”

“Are you sure about that?”

“’course I am. What’s mine is yours. Besides, what’s worth stealing around here?”

Mycroft looked him up and down, from cheap tie down to his practical – and ugly – shoes, and smiled. “I could think of a thing or two.” He stood up and crossed the distance between them. “Now stop butchering that poor tie of yours. Allow me?” Lestrade gave an amused huff but didn’t object, so he went to stand before him and deftly tied the dull material into a neat knot. “There,” he said in a satisfied voice.

Lestrade brought his hand up to the knot and fingered it. “That’s different from how I usually do it,” he said. “What did you do to it?”

“It’s called a double knot and it’s fairly similar to the four-in-hand.”

“The what?”

“The four-in-hand. That’s how you usually knot your ties, at least whenever I see you.”

“Ah. Four-in-hand. Of course. I had no idea.”

“So I see.” Mycroft let a touch of arrogance creep into his voice and ducked away when Lestrade threw a used paper napkin at him. “I can teach you,” he offered. “It’s not all that difficult.”

“Some other time, yeah?”

“Of course.”

Lestrade grabbed his mobile and his car keys. “So,” he turned to look at Mycroft. “When do I see you again? You need to update me on that Weresnatcher case. I want all the details on what’s been happening, I want to see the files our people have put together,” he put extra emphasis on ‘our people’, a fact that did not escape Mycroft’s attention, “and I need to hear everything you’ve found out about Dartford. I’m assuming they will have cleared that particular hiding spot now that they know they’ve been discovered, and we will need to develop a strategy.” He gave Mycroft a piercing look. “ _We_ ,” he repeated. “You will not fly off into the sunset all by yourself the next time.”

“No, I won’t,” Mycroft said meekly.

“Good lad. Have your office send me your availabilities and we have a date.”

The door slammed shut behind him and Mycroft stood in the kitchen, clutching the paper napkin in his hand, and felt warmth spread through his system. ‘We.’ ‘Our people.’ _Not alone anymore._

******

Lestrade squeezed into the meeting room just in time, earning a scowl from DCI Shielding.

“Where have you been?” Donovan whispered.

“I had a visitor,” he whispered back. “Not what you think,” he added.

“I’m not thinking anything.” The smirk belied her words, and Lestrade shot her a sinister stare. His interest in Sergeant Sedgwick had not gone unnoticed, neither had her interest in him. He was fairly certain there was a betting game going on and his team was eyeing his every move. After a brief struggle, he had asked to be pulled out of the Thames murder case, claiming it was beyond his expertise. The truth was so much simpler: keep your shags out of your team. If he managed to get Ann Sedgwick where he wanted her, and it was looking good so far, he didn’t want her on his team in case things got ugly. Been there, learnt the lesson.

He crossed his legs and refused to meet Donovan’s eyes, focussing on the suicide case Shielding presented. There was something odd about the case and his frown deepened as he absorbed the facts. Apparently, an upper echelon manager, a Sir Jeffrey Patterson, had been found dead in an office building. The investigating team had presumed suicide when no signs of external violence had been detected, and the victim had been in good physical shape which made a sudden cardiac episode an unlikely cause of death. However, an additional and more extensive autopsy had been ordered as the victim’s wife insisted her husband had been happy and a suicide was out of the question. She had even given a statement to the press. Lestrade suppressed a sigh. A mystery suicide and a title. Splendid.

 

When he finally stepped outside the building for a quick lunch, a tall figure detached itself from the signpost and approached him with long strides.

“A mystery suicide?” Sherlock Holmes said in lieu of a greeting. “What’s with that?”

“I can’t share details of an on-going investigation with you, Sherlock, and you know that.”

“Ah come on. What are the chances of you solving that without my help?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said patiently and stopped when the all-seeing Holmes eyes travelled along his body. “What now? What do the buttons of my shirt tell you?”

“Buttons? The third from the top is about to fall off. You buttons are dull. It’s your tie that’s interesting.”

“My tie?”

“It’s a double knot. You’ve either been practicing, or my brother has spent the night.”

Lestrade groaned. “What if I told you I wanted to try a new style?”

“Nonsense. You always tie a four-in-hand. A pathetic one, if you ask me.”

“I’m not asking you.”

“You’re letting my brother fix your tie for you?”

“Yeah, and? What’s it to you?”

“I’m merely observing.”

“Fine. Observe all you want. I’m not giving you any details on the suicide case.”

“Not yet. But you will.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“You will.”

“Well, if you excuse me, I have a lunch appointment.”

“Don’t give my brother my regards.”

“I’m not meeting your brother.”

“You’re not?”

“Sherlock, strange as it may sound but the world does not consist of you Holmeses alone.” He smiled at the slim woman making her way towards them, and his smile widened into a grin when he noticed the look of disgust on Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock, meet Detective Sergeant Sedgwick. Ann, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

Sedgwick held out her hand. “The famous private detective. I’ve heard of you.”

Sherlock pointedly ignored her hand. “You haven’t been listening very closely, Sergeant. It’s consulting detective, not private detective.” He cast a fleeting glance over her and gave a derisive sniff. “It’s not going to work, Lestrade. You’re postponing the inevitable.” He closed the top button of his jacket and gave Sedgwick another look, only this time there was something in his eyes that would have looked like pity on any other person. Lestrade blinked but before he could answer, Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “He’s not going to deliver.”

“Excuse me?” Lestrade narrowed his eyes but Sherlock had already turned on his heels and hurried to hail a cab.

“What was that all about?” Sedgwick placed her hand on Lestrade’s arm. “Greg?”

He snorted. “Never mind him. He’s just being his very own charming self.”

“Is he always like that?”

“Yeah, he’s always like that.” He met her blue eyes and managed a smile. “Hungry?”

“Very.”

“So am I. Let’s go then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken the liberty to move the happenings of ASiP a couple of months forward. All synopses I've found state the suicides begin in October but I've moved them to summer. No particular reason other than my wish to have Sherlock meet his future flatmate a bit sooner. Hope you don't mind ;-)


	9. Chapter 9

“What do you mean, there’s been another one?”

Lestrade looked up from the file he was poring over. Donovan nodded as if to confirm what she had just said. “There’s been another mystery suicide, only this time, the victim’s an eighteen year old.”

“What?”

“Found dead in a gym. His friend,” she checked her notes, “Gary Jenkins, is currently being interviewed. Care to talk to him?”

“Why not.” He stood and stretched. “Who’s conducting the interview?”

“Thornton.”

“Good. He’s got a way with teenagers.”

“Nineteen is not a teenager anymore,” Donovan pointed out.

“Mhm. Guess you’re right.” He followed Donovan into the hall. “Which room is it?”

“Two.”

“Very well. Let’s hear what Mr Jenkins has to say.” He made his way to the interrogation rooms, opened the door of room two and stepped inside, greeting the police officer sitting at the table with a tip of his head.

“DI Lestrade entering interrogation room two at fifteen-oh-five,” Thornton said in his soft South West accent, speaking into the recording device, and Lestrade shifted his attention to the young man slumped in one of the plastic chairs.

“Gary Jenkins?”

Jenkins nodded.

“I’m DI Lestrade. I understand the deceased was a friend of yours?”

Jenkins shrank into his chair and nodded again.

“Is it also correct that you were the last one to see him?”

“I didn’t kill him!” The young man’s voice sounded as if he was about to cry, and Lestrade pulled up a chair to sit down opposite him.

“Nobody said you did,” he said in a soothing tone. “I’m just trying to understand what happened.”

“I’ve already told him,” he jerked his chin towards Thornton, “everything that’s happened.”

“I’m sure you have. Would you mind walking me through it as well? Just so I get the picture?”

With a swift glance in Thornton’s direction he checked the Sergeant’s reaction to his interference, knowing from experience how annoying it could be if a superior office swanned in, but Thornton merely leaned back and crossed his legs, waiting, patient as a… Labrador? Lestrade shot him a sharp look and Probed without thinking. Thornton looked up, startled, but Lestrade quickly snapped his Shield shut. There was no time for that now.

Jenkins hadn’t noticed the brief interlude, his eyes fixed on a spot on the opposite wall. “We’d just left Jim’s place to catch a film. It was pouring down and we couldn’t get a cab so Jim decided to run back to fetch another umbrella. I waited for a while but he didn’t come back, so I went to his flat to see if there was anything wrong. Only,” his voice shook a little, “he wasn’t there. I thought he was pulling a prank on me or maybe he had caught a cab after all and decided to be a cock and leave me waiting.”

“Was that normal behaviour? Pulling pranks, leaving you behind?”

“No!” It came out angry. “Never! He’s never that cruel!”

“How well did you know him?”

“We’ve been… friends for a little over a year.”

The short pause did not escape Lestrade. “Friends?” he asked and Jenkins raised his chin.

“Friends,” he repeated. Lestrade didn’t reply to that, merely looked at the young man and waited. And waited.

Jenkins slammed his fist down. “Lovers, alright!” he shouted. “We’re lovers! Jim’s my boyfriend! And if that makes me a faggot, I don’t give a fuck!”

“No need to get defensive here,” Lestrade said in a calm voice. “You’re not being cross-examined, Gary. I’m merely trying to understand why a healthy young man would want to kill himself.”

A strangled sob escaped Jenkins’ throat. “I don’t know.” He hung his head. “I don’t know,” he repeated.

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary? Was his behaviour any different?”

“No.” Jenkins’ eyes looked very bright and he blinked rapidly. “His Da had given him a hard time the night before because of me, again, but it’s not like he was kicked out of his home or disowned or anything. His Da doesn’t approve of his ‘lifestyle’,” the quotations marks were almost audible, “and just wouldn’t let go. But he’s used to that.”

“Trouble at work?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Financial problems?”

“No. Well, his account's on overdraft but he's just taken on an extra shift so that should be solved soon.”

“Mhm.” Lestrade tapped his finger against his lips, thinking. With a sigh, he pushed back his chair and stood up. “Well, thanks for talking to me, Gary. I’ll leave you with Sergeant Thornton for a little while longer.”

“DI Lestrade leaving interrogation room at fifteen fourteen,” Thornton stated and leaned forward to face Jenkins. “Gary, what did you do after you figured James had disappeared?”

 

Lestrade’s mobile chirped, signalling an incoming message. He snatched it out of his pocket and squinted at the screen.

_Need your help. --SH_

Sherlock Holmes asking for help? _What happened?_

_221B Baker Street. Urgent. --SH_

_Are you alright?_

_Yes. Hurry. --SH_

He knew from previous such summons he wouldn’t be granted more information, so he walked past Donovan’s desk on his way out.

“Anything you need me for?”

“No, everything’s under control. Why? Anything the matter?” She gave him a shrewd look. “Urgent inter-departmental debriefing?”

“Sally!” he hissed, earning a knowing smirk. “Sherlock’s texted me.”

“Oh, him.” She made a face and he briefly wondered how high the stakes had risen in the meantime, and whether they leaned more towards his success or his failure. “Yeah, well, if the freak’s calling, you better go.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Just stating a fact.” She turned her attention back to what she was doing. “I got it covered.”

“Thanks for your kind help,” he said with a hint of acid in his voice, but she only shrugged.

Traffic was just beginning to thicken but he made it to the address Sherlock had given him without getting stuck. He scanned the house numbers as he drove down Baker Street and when 221 came into view, he pulled up right in front of a small bistro named ‘Speedy’s’. Before he got out of the car, he made sure his special parking permit was on display, just in case.

Sherlock was nowhere in sight and just as he was about to ring his mobile number, the front door opened and an elderly lady stepped out to greet him with a smile.

“You must be Detective Inspector Lestrade,” she said cheerfully.

“I am,” he accepted her hand, smiling down at her, careful not to apply too much pressure. Her hand lay tiny and fragile in his.

“I’m Mrs Hudson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs Hudson.”

“You’re here for the flat?”

“The flat?” he repeated, not understanding.

“Yes, the upstairs flat. Sherlock said he was looking for a flatmate and he was expecting a Scotland Yard inspector?”

“Oh dear God, no,” he said, scandalised, and Mrs Hudson gave him a puzzled smile.

“Why are you here then?”

He opened his mouth to answer but Sherlock’s voice came from somewhere above him. “No time for chit chat, Lestrade. Upstairs, if you please.”

With an apologetic smile he ran up the stairs and knocked before entering. The door was pulled open forcefully and Sherlock glared at him.

“For heaven’s sakes, Lestrade, just come inside. This is not Buckingham Palace.”

“And a good day to you too, Sherlock." He stepped into a small hallway and followed Sherlock into a partially funished sitting room. "How may I be of service?”

“I’m thinking about moving in,” Sherlock said without preamble. “What do you think?”

“Wait,” Lestrade held up his hands in mock astonishment. “Are you asking me for my opinion?”

“Why else would I have asked you to come?”

“You want _my_ opinion?”

“Yes!” Irritation crept into the deep voice. “I’m beginning to think it was a mistake.”

“No, Sherlock, it’s just that you never ask my opinion on anything.”

Sherlock made a rude sound. “Small wonder.”

Just as Lestrade was about to utter something rude himself, there was a cooing sound from the door.

“Oo-ooh!” Mrs Hudson stood in the doorframe, beaming at them. “Well, Inspector? Do you like it?”

“I haven’t really looked around yet, Mrs Hudson.”

“Well, then do,” Sherlock said cuttingly and Lestrade barely managed not to roll his eyes. Instead, he followed Mrs Hudson who pointed out kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and upstairs bedroom out to him. The wallpaper in the sitting room was rather hideous and the two armchairs looked a little worn, as did the sofa, but as he walked around, peering into each corner, he nodded his approval.

“This could be very comfy. The upstairs bedroom is a bit small but it’s not too bad.” He looked at Sherlock who was poking at something in the fireplace. “Will you take it?”

“I think so, yes.” Sherlock and Mrs Hudson exchanged a small smile. She clapped her hands in delight.

“Oh Sherlock, that makes me very happy!” She turned to Lestrade. “And you’re sure you’re not interested? It’s a good location, you know, and Speedy’s downstairs is very convenient.”

“I don’t doubt it, Mrs Hudson, but I have a small house, you see. I’m all set.” His mobile chirped but he ignored it.

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “It would be nice having a policeman as a tenant. Not that this is a dangerous area,” she hastened to add.

“I’m flattered but I’m sure Sherlock will find a better flatmate than I’d ever be. He’s good at reading people, you know. And if all else fails, his brother might be of assistance. Mycroft knows a lot of people.” Sherlock shot him a dirty look and Lestrade grinned.

Mrs Hudson smiled politely at the mention of Mycroft and turned as if remembering something that needed her immediate attention. “I’m sorry but I have to leave you. There’s a casserole in the oven, you know.”

“Certainly,” Lestrade said equally politely and Sherlock shouted after her, “I’ll be with you shortly!”

Lestrade walked over to the window and looked outside. “This is nice, Sherlock. I’m glad to hear you’re going to move out of that dump.” He turned around and leaned against the windowsill. “Can you afford the rent?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I can cover two months. Mrs Hudson gives me a small discount.”

“Oh?”

“I did her a favour once. Besides, she’s my Link and feels responsible. Not enough to grant me a big discount, mind you,” he gave one of his lop-sided grins, “but enough so I can settle in and look for a flatmate. Do you think it’s going to be difficult?”

“What, Sherlock, asking my opinion again?” He chuckled. “Seriously, this is a nice enough flat in a good location. It shouldn’t take too long to find someone to move in with you.”

“Well,” Sherlock inspected his hands, “let’s hope Mycroft doesn’t get it into his head to run a full background check on any potential cohabitant –”

“Oh but he will,” Lestrade blithely said, earning another glare.

“– or kidnap him and conduct one of his interrogations.”

“Does he do that?” Lestrade asked, interested, and Sherlock huffed.

“Are you trying to tell me you weren’t taken to some abandoned office building or warehouse after we met?”

“No, in fact I wasn’t.”

“Huh. Strange, that.”

“Circumstances were different back then,” Lestrade pointed out.

“They certainly were.” Sherlock’s gaze turned inwards for a moment, then he brought his hands together with a loud clap. “Time to discuss terms with the future landlady. Dreadfully sorry to be kicking you out like that, Lestrade. Your valuable insight is most appreciated.”

“Uh-huh. Well, good thing I have plans for tonight, or else I would cry myself to sleep over this quick dismissal.”

“That little woman of yours?”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

“Why are you wasting your time on her?”

“I consider it an investment, not a waste. And since when do you care?”

“Oh, I don’t care. I’m just saying you’re wasting your time.”

“And why is that? Is there something you wish to share?”

“Not at all. But consider this: do you always take that long?”

“That is none of your bloody business. She’s busy with a huge case, s’all.”

“Right. Close the door when you leave.” Without another word, Sherlock ran down the flight of stairs and Lestrade heard the door to the downstairs flat open, Mrs Hudson giving a giggle to something Sherlock was saying, and their voices became an indistinct mumble as the door was shut again. Sighing, he cast another glance around the sitting room, then stepped outside and gently closed the door behind him.

On his way to his car he pulled out his mobile to check his messages.

_Free tonight? I could murder a steak. Ann_

Instead of texting back, he hit ‘dial’ and waited for the call to connect.

“Impeccable timing, Inspector,” the soft Irish voice came on. “I was just beginning to wonder if I should pick something up for another lonely supper in front of the telly.”

“I was held up, sorry.”

“Case?”

“Sort of, yeah. When can you get off?” A soft laugh was the reply to that and he winced when he realised what his words implied.

“Ready when you are,” she said, leaving the interpretation of her words entirely to him.

“Uhm,” he cleared his throat, “I need to finish some paperwork but I should be able to leave around six, six thirtyish?”

“Sounds great. Want me to drop by your office?”

“No, let’s meet somewhere.”

“I see. Boys and girls running a bet, yeah?”

“Exactly.” He smiled, relieved. That was one thing he liked about her. She understood how things worked at the Met, was working her cases as diligently as he was working his and had cancelled lunches and dinners as often as he had. No pouting, no adding up.

“How about the Cow Grid?” she suggested. “Best Angus steaks in town.”

“That the place with the candles on the floor?”

“Yep.”

“I’m in.”

“See you around sevenish then. Text me if you’re late.”

“Will do.”

He disconnected the call and got into his car. As he drove off the thought crossed his mind that he should feel a lot more triumphant.

******

“Lestrade, may I have a word?”

DCI Shielding stood in the doorway to his office, clearly waiting to be invited in. Lestrade looked up, surprised at seeing his boss so hesitant and gestured towards the visitors’ chairs.

“Of course, sir. Sit down.”

He watched as Shielding closed the door and sat down on the edge of the chair, smoothing his jacket and straightening his tie. What was that all about? Shielding was never fidgety but now even his impressive moustache looked nervous, more bristly than ever. Lestrade placed his pen on top of the forms he’d been signing and sat back, waiting.

Shielding cleared his throat. “I have something of a delicate nature to discuss with you.”

Ann. _Shit_.

“Yes?”

“It has been brought to my attention that there have been unusual goings-on.”

“Sir?”

“Disruptions in the established order of things.”

Lestrade remained silent, the subliminal message lost on him.

“Disturbances.”

“Uh-huh?”

Shielding sighed, clearly uncomfortable. “Caused by you.”

“What?” Lestrade sat up. “What are you talking about? Is it the betting on Sergeant Sedgwick and myself? In that case, I apologise. You know how the lads are –”

He was cut off in mid-sentence. “Your off-duty activities are none of my business as long as they don’t interfere with your police work. So far they haven’t and thus I don’t care. Both of you are grown up enough to know what you’re doing. At least I hope so.”

“Then what are your trying to tell me, sir? Forgive me, but I can’t seem to follow.”

“Lestrade,” Shielding finally leaned back, crossed his legs and folded his hands. “You have always been a good policeman, a damn fine police officer. You are efficient, thorough, determined and charismatic. Your authority is not questioned by your team, nor by anyone outside your team. What you are not, and you will forgive me for being blunt, is ambitious.” He narrowed his eyes, giving Lestrade a piercing stare. “So how come my people approach me with hushed talk of a new and improved you?”

When Lestrade didn’t reply, he continued. “Do you remember the little talk we had a while ago, the morning after you called for assistance at the site of that dreadful animal slaughter?”

“Yes,” Lestrade said slowly. “Of course I do. What of it?”

“Remember you told me about that owl coming to visit?”

“I remember.”

“Well, I’ve been watching you.” He leaned forward, his gaze not leaving Lestrade’s face for a second. “I’m going to ask you one question, and I expect you to answer truthfully.”

“I will.”

“Are you Anchoring the Owl?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Shielding snapped. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Are you. Anchoring. The Owl?”

Lestrade looked him directly in the eyes and decided to be equally straightforward. _::Yes sir, I am.::_

Shielding flinched back as if on the receiving end of a right hook. His mouth opened and closed a few times. “So it is true,” he finally managed, and it came out as a squawk.

“I’m afraid it is.” He cocked his head. “When did you notice, and what was reported?”

“Rumours, mostly. The corridor news service has been bouncing bits and pieces about you sporting a new aura. Rubbish, if you ask me. Still, I kept wondering about the Owl and how he’d come visiting. I can’t remember hearing the Owl ever visiting anybody. He’s been working alone for a very long time.”

Lestrade tilted his head in acknowledgment.

“The day before yesterday, we were called in for a DL meeting. District Leaders, that is, and that’s when I noticed the Owl had changed. Nothing obvious, mind you, nothing that would jump you right in the face.” He brushed a finger across his moustache. “He was calm, balanced. Radiating more power than ever. He scared the shit out of me, made me glad he’s on our side, and from what I picked up, the others felt the same.” He gave a short laugh, making it sound like a bark, and Lestrade stifled a grin, the image of a black schnauzer popping up in his mind. “If I may borrow from a well-known space opera, I’d say the Force is strong with him.”

Lestrade snorted. “Can I tell him that?”

Shielding looked at him, horrified. “Please don’t. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. You must not think I’m –” He stopped when Lestrade held up a hand.

“I’m not thinking anything. He’s got a good sense of humour, you know, and as long as you don’t compare him to the Emperor, I’m sure he’d get a kick out of it.”

They looked at each other, then Shielding cleared his throat once more. “Have you thought about how this is going to affect us?”

“Us?”

“Us,” Shielding made a gesture indicating the two of them, “and us.”, another gesture adding the department.

Lestrade frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Anchoring the Owl has catapulted you straight to the top, Lestrade. Are we to expect major changes within Scotland Yard as well?”

“What? Oh my God, no!” It was Lestrade’s turn to look horrified. “I’m not sleeping my way up the ranks, if that’s what you mean.”

Shielding flinched at the choice of words but didn’t correct him, either.

“I have no intention whatsoever to leave my post anytime soon. You said so yourself, sir, I’m not the ambitious type. I like my work, and I’m good at it. It’d be great to make DCI one day, yeah, I’m not gonna deny I’d like that, but other than that? Commander or even Commissioner?” He shuddered. “Can you see me rub shoulders with the upper echelon? Not really. I’m not a politician and I have no intention to become one. I Anchor him which means I have his back. Always and forever. No ifs ands or buts. Be there for the other Anchors? With pleasure. Shoulder my team aside, forgetting where I come from? Don’t think so.” He fixed Shielding with his dark eyes. “Here, I’m on your team and you’re in charge.”

The DCI visibly relaxed. “Glad to hear it.” He brushed an imaginary speck off his sleeve and got up from his chair. “I believe you have a job to do, Lestrade. Mystery suicides ring a bell?”

Lestrade stood, too, and grinned. “I’m on it.”

Shielding held out a hand and Lestrade took it. “Good to have you on the team, Greg. Both teams.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dave, please.”

“Dave.”

They shook hands with a firm clasp, then Shielding turned and left the office, leaving the door open behind him.

Lestrade checked the time, sighed, and sat down again to continue his battle against the piles of paperwork.

******

In his office at the Diogenes club, Mycroft closed the files he had been studying and smiled. Jeremy Mackles. An interesting character. Born and raised in Colwyn Bay, Wales, he had joined the South Wales Police at the age of nineteen and transferred to the London Met’s Mounted Branch when he was twenty-five. An accident causing severe shoulder trauma had put an end to that career at the age of thirty and he had joined the Serious and Organised Crime Command, and three years ago, when there had been an opening for a DCI at the Oxford Major Crime Unit, he had moved once again. So far, so unremarkable. What did set him apart from other police officers with similar CVs was the fact that he had been out and openly gay since the day he joined the police but apparently, his career had not suffered.

The second file was more interesting because it covered his Anchor activities. Mackles came from a line of Welsh Shifters that sprouted Anchors every other generation and while these Anchors weren’t particularly strong, they had solid knowledge of their land and its metamorph structures. Knowledge like that wasn’t to be underestimated for it made them excellent negotiators. It was unusual for them to leave their home soil but it did happen. Mackles had never Bonded although he had worked closely with a variety of Shifters over the years, probably forming loose Links with them, and had gained a reputation for being a resourceful and reliable trainer for very young Anchors and metamorphs uncertain of their Gifts. Then, about a year ago, he had met a female Were, had Bonded with her and they got married only six months later.

Mycroft tapped his lips with his left index finger, thinking, and looked at the photo of a slim man with a shock of ginger hair and shrewd hazel eyes that looked back at the viewer with what seemed to be constant amusement. _Been chasing Lestrade forever, have you? Better get that out of your head._

He reached for his tumbler and swirled the golden liquid around before taking a sip.

_::Mycroft, you there?::_

Mycroft smiled. Right on cue. _::Of course I am. Where else would I be?::_

He could tell Lestrade was smiling, too. It was audible even in his Mindvoice. _::Dunno. Hiding away, planning for world domination?::_

He snorted. _::Don’t be absurd.::_

_::Mycroft Holmes, Overlord. Did you know the Force is strong with you?::_

_::I beg your pardon?::_

Lestrade gave a quick summary of the conversation he’d had with DCI Shielding and Mycroft nodded, satisfied. _::Very good. You’re being noticed and accepted, even without formal introduction. I’m happy to hear it.::_

_::So am I. I was a bit concerned when he started but I guess he understands I’m not going to sleep myself up the ranks.::_

_::Please don’t.::_

_::Don’t what?::_

_::Sleep yourself up the ranks.::_

_::I won’t. Don’t worry.::_

Mycroft took another sip. _::Are you available tonight?::_

_::Uhm, actually, no. That’s what I was gonna tell you.::_

_::Yes?::_

_::I have plans for tonight, and I might have an overnight guest. So please, no surprise visits, OK?::_

_::Oh, I see. In that case, I won’t drop by.::_ He tried to hide his disappointment but apparently some of it seeped through their Link.

 _::I’m sorry. Don’t be angry with me, please. It’s just that I’ve been…::_ his Mindvoice trailed off as if he was groping for words.

 _::I’m not angry,::_ Mycroft reassured him. _::You don’t have to explain yourself. I’m fairly certain I can keep myself occupied. World domination is an ambitious undertaking, you know. Careful planning and all.::_

 _::Good.::_ Lestrade sounded relieved and Mycroft briefly closed his eyes. _::Speak to you tomorrow then, yeah?::_

_::Tomorrow it is. Have fun, Greg.::_

_::Thanks. You too.::_

Mycroft snapped his Shield shut, reached for the tumbler and downed its contents with one gulp. He slammed the expensive glass down on the polished surface of his desk and got up, closing his notebook computer with more force than necessary, then snatched it off the desk and with long strides made for the door, not bothering to close it behind him. There were employees for that. He had stuff to do and a videoconference to attend. No time to Shift and fly anyway.

******

Blunt fingertips roamed his body, leaving a trail of delicious goosebumps and warmth. A stubbled chin rasped along his collarbone, pausing at that sensitive spot where neck met shoulder. Mycroft tilted his head to allow for better access and was rewarded with a low chuckle. He closed his eyes in bliss when a teasing tongue licked and tickled its way to the hollow of his throat, and he sighed when lips kissed and gently – oh so very gently – sucked at the pulse that Mycroft knew was visible there. The suction grew a bit stronger and would probably leave a mark but who cared. It would still be hidden beneath the starched collar of one of his crisp shirts. A calloused hand slid along his ribcage and came to lie on his flank, a patch of heat that spread throughout his whole body.

The lips moved from his throat to his left nipple, sucking it between teeth and he drew a hissing breath. His nipples were especially sensitive although not an awful lot of people knew that or had ever bothered to find out. The expert tongue flicked across the flat disc, teasing the small bud into full attention, then moved to the right side to continue playing. A pleading sound escaped his mouth and he buried his hands in salt and pepper hair as warm fingers lazily started circling his navel. All of his blood seemed to have rushed to one place and he felt himself pulse with raw need.

“Oh God, Greg, please,” he panted, his voice foreign in his ears, and “please,” he begged again. He heard himself utter something that sounded suspiciously like a sob when strong fingers curled around his aching prick and he shamelessly pushed his hips up, shoving himself into that firm grip, not sure whether he wanted a quick release from this exquisite agony or whether he wanted this to last.

“You are so beautiful,” a husky voice breathed, “Myc, I want you so much.” And then something hot and hard demanded entrance into his body and he fisted the sheets in helpless bliss. “God, Myc, you’re so fucking tight.” It was perfect, and he all but arched off the mattress when Lestrade’s cock brushed the sensitive gland deep inside of him.

 

Mycroft jolted awake with a start, heart racing, blood pumping in his veins, feeling disoriented. Where had that come from? A dream so intense like nothing he could remember – and there had been quite a few dreams lately – and it had left him with a raging hard-on. He pushed the sheets back, hoping the cool breeze would help him calm down but instead it brought back fresh memories of breath tickling his skin and soft touches of rough fingers. _Inhale-two-three exhale-two-three._ He waited for his heartbeat to slow down but it did nothing for his erection. He experimentally palmed himself through the fine cotton of his pyjama bottoms and inhaled sharply. _Greg_. With hands that were not quite steady he pushed the bottoms down and cupped his balls that felt hot and heavy in his palm, squeezing them, making lust shoot through his system until he couldn’t take it any longer and fisted his prick. It didn’t take him long, just a few rough tugs, and he came in hot spurts, shouting Lestrade’s name. Twice. Loudly. Afterwards, he rolled over to his left side, not bothering to clean up, not sure whether the noise he made was laughter or sobbing.

******

“Who is Mike?”

In another part of London, Lestrade froze in mid-movement.

“What?” he managed.

“Who is Mike?”

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down into the face of Sergeant Ann Sedgwick who stared up at him out of angry blue eyes.

“What are you talking about?”

“You just said, ‘Mike, I want you so much’ and ‘Mike, you’re so fucking tight’.”

“You must have heard me wrong,” he lowered his mouth to meet her lips but she turned her face away, so he gently bit her freckled shoulder instead. “Come on, Annie, I’m right here with you. There’s no-one else.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am.” He rolled his hips seductively but she lay still, very unlike the insatiable vixen she had been until moments ago, and he felt his erection slowly wither away.

“Then why did you say his name twice?”

With a groan, he pulled out and rolled off her to lie on his back. “Listen, I’m not sure what you heard but let me tell you, there is nobody else. The only Myc I know is my pet owl and believe me, I don’t do kinky stuff with birds.”

“Mhm.” She sounded unconvinced but after a few seconds of pouting, she reached over and tentatively brushed her middle finger over his still half-erect prick that immediately sprang back to life, optimistically making the latex sheath a snug fit once more. With a giggle, she swung one of her slim legs over his hips, straddling him, and Lestrade aligned his cock at once and watched through half-lidded eyes as she slowly sank down. She was beautiful, and she was unashamed as she began riding him. He reached up to cup her soft breasts, enjoying how she thrust them into his hands. With a provocative smile she took his left hand, brought it up to her mouth and sucked his thumb between her lips. Her tongue swirled around it and he bit back a moan. She released his thumb and slid his hand down her body, not allowing it to rest on her breast, bringing it straight to where they were joined. Spreading her legs even wider, she placed his wet thumb right to the centre of her soft auburn curls and pushed against it. He immediately understood and circled that tight little nub with just the right amount of pressure, making her cry out and arch her back, rocking her hips in complete abandon.

He closed his eyes as lust shot through him like an electric bolt and his mind was flooded with images of pale freckled skin, of an auburn head flung back in ecstasy, of long fingers digging into his flesh.

“Greg, oh God, _Greg!_ ” He heard his name shouted loudly and breathlessly, and the walls around his cock started clenching rhythmically, convulsively, milking him, and he couldn’t hold on any longer and violently thrust up into the wet heat engulfing him. His hips lifted off the mattress on the last powerful upward stroke and he spent himself with a hoarse cry, hands clamped around his partner’s pale thighs.

“Ah _fuck,_ Myc _!_ ”

When he opened his eyes again after what seemed an eternity, still twitching in small aftershocks, it was to the sight of an ice column sitting on top of him. Ann looked frozen to the spot, all signs of lust and ecstasy erased from her features.

“Who. Is. Mike.” It was hissed through clenched teeth, and Lestrade shook his head, helpless and embarrassed, unable to meet her eyes, passively watching as she climbed off him and started fishing for her clothes that lay in an untidy heap at the foot of the bed. Only when she pulled her trousers over her legs and slipped into her pumps did he sit up. Immediately she held up a hand, silencing him before he had uttered even a syllable.

“Don’t. Just, don’t. I don’t want to hear it.” She snatched up her purse and started rummaging through it. With shaking hands, she pulled out her lipstick and applied a shade of red. Lestrade had found it sexy back at the restaurant and had not been able to tear his eyes from her full lips but now he thought it looked cheap. “Whoever he is, he’s a lucky guy.” She started for the door, casting him one last glance. “Who would have thought. What a shame.”

When the front door slammed shut, Lestrade rolled out of bed as if under water. He pulled the condom off, made his way to the bathroom and dumped the condom into the small waste bin underneath the window. He stepped into the shower cabin, turned the water on and stood motionless, letting the hot water rain down on him. All he saw was a pair of huge pupils surrounded by a ring of luminescent blue, boring into him, looking into his very soul, and through the pounding in his ears he heard a voice, husky with passion, “Greg, oh God, _Greg_!”

He put his forehead against the tiles. Who was he kidding?

_Mycroft._


	10. Chapter 10

Lestrade dreaded going to work the next morning. Dreaded it like a third grader who hadn’t done his homework and dawdled about for as long as possible, lathering up shaving soap to use his razor instead of the electric shaver, indecisive about whether to wear a white or a grey shirt to work, giving his shoes a quick polish, and trying to tie a double knot instead of a four-in-hand. Finally there was nothing else left to do short of calling in sick so he took his car keys, his phone and his wallet and made for his car with the enthusiasm of a man on his way to a root canal treatment.

When he stepped into the Met’s building, there were grins and winks in his direction along with a few curious glances. Ann and Sergeant Okoro were talking in the distance and when Ann spotted Lestrade, she pointedly turned her back. Fine. At least no public scene. Ann was highly professional when it came to her job but there were situations when… well. It looked like he wouldn’t have to deal with hurt and anger right away.

He grit his teeth and headed straight for his office, avoiding all eye contact, and closed the door to his small refuge with a heavy sigh, flung his jacket over one of the visitors’ chairs and sat down heavily at his desk, for once grateful he could bury himself in paperwork. The report on the suicide victims had been placed right next to the keyboard and he picked it up after turning on the computer, reading through the first couple of pages without much interest. It wasn’t before long, however, that the case and its contradictions started to intrigue him. Both victims were healthy males with no history of drug abuse and no inclination to take their own lives, if the bereaved were to be believed, and after reading the interviews with Sir Jeffrey’s wife and Gary Jenkins he found there was no reason not to believe them. He studied the photos and started putting the pieces together in his head, trying to find something that would link the two men. Apart from the fact that both had been male and Caucasian, nothing else sprang to mind, at least not yet, so he clicked on the search engine and began researching the substances found in the bodies in the hope of somehow matching them with other suicides or deaths that had included chemicals.

He managed to busy himself for almost two hours, deliberately ignoring Donovan when she stuck her head into his office, and answered only outside calls. When he was no longer able to pretend all was going as it should, he Reached out.

 _::Mycroft, you there?::_ Nothing. He waited, then, _::Please.::_ Nothing. Their Link was silent, not quite cut off but shut down. With a frustrated noise he reached for his mobile and speed-dialled Mycroft’s personal number. The call was re-directed and a friendly female voice informed him that Mr Holmes was going to be tied up in meetings all day. He left a message for Mycroft to ring him back, thanked her and ended the call.

Time to face the inevitable. He stood up, slipped his jacket back on, schooled his features into a mask of professional neutrality and left the office, making a beeline for Donovan’s desk. She looked up and grinned when she saw it was him.

“Thanks,” she said.

“What for?”

“I won.”

He made an exasperated sound but managed a tight-lipped smile in spite of himself. “Glad to hear it. Hope the win was in my favour.”

“Always in your favour, boss.” She swivelled her chair around and leaned back. “Was it worth it? Ann’s not said a word.”

Lestrade clenched his teeth together. “Good.”

“I see.” He glared at her and she shrugged her shoulders in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry. I’m just surprised. I thought...”

“Leave it, Sally,” he interrupted icily.

“Whatever.” She looked a bit hurt and swivelled around to face the computer again. “What can I do for you, sir?” She put extra emphasis on the last word but he pretended not to notice.

“The suicides. Any news on that?”

“Not really.” She clicked a file open. “See here? I’ve been trying to match forensics’ findings with similar cases but –”

“No matches, right?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t find anything either. Do forensics have an idea where the substance has come from?”

“They’re working on it but it seems there’s nothing out of the ordinary. I mean, no signature mixture or anything, nothing that could be linked back to somebody we have on file.” She looked at him. “You’re not thinking about bringing the freak in just yet, are you, sir?”

“Don’t call him that, Sally,” Lestrade said tiredly. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Sorry, sir. But are you?”

“Not sure, well, not yet anyway. Liaise with the organised crime boys, will you? See if they’ve stumbled across something similar.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks.”

In the coffee area he bumped into Sergeant Okoro. The tall man watched Lestrade through narrowed eyes as he was waiting for his tea water to boil, but Lestrade didn’t offer anything but a curt nod of greeting. He had shagged Okoro’s partner, alright, but it wasn’t as if Ann had been an unwilling participant and he didn’t feel as if he owed the other man an explanation, let alone an apology. Still, Okoro’s barely concealed hostility was like sandpaper on his fraying nerves, and after he had dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee, having decided against adding a dash of milk, he met Okoro’s dark eyes.

_::Don’t go there, mate. It’s none of your fucking business.::_

There. It felt good to speak it without actually saying it out loud… but then Okoro reached for the sink as if to steady himself, and it was Lestrade’s turn to narrow his eyes.

_::Did you just hear that?::_

“I, uh,” Okoro cast a glance over his shoulder, “I did. How can you, I mean…” his voice faltered as realisation dawned. “I had no idea. Sir.” He backed off a step and Lestrade immediately held his hands up, palms facing outward.

“At ease, Sergeant,” he said, hoping he’d get his foot out of his mouth. “I didn’t wish to cause offense.” After a tiny pause, he added, “I’m still not quite used to it.” Better stick to the truth. “Sometimes, it just happens.”

“What do you mean, not quite used to… ah.” He snapped his mouth shut.

“What?”

“It is true, then.” Okoro dropped a teabag into his mug and filled it with water. “I didn’t know what to make of the rumours.”

“What rumours?”

“The Owl has chosen a mate.”

“What of it?”

“Equal in strength but not fully in power yet.” Okoro’s gaze held his. “Uninitiated. Unclaimed.”

Lestrade felt his ears grow hot and kept his mouth firmly shut.

Okoro gave him a knowing smile. “I see,” he said softly. “I will talk to her.”

“Talk to whom?” Lestrade asked, dreading the answer.

“Sergeant Sedgwick, of course.”

“Is she, I mean, are you…” He stopped in mid-sentence and Okoro shook his head.

“She isn’t and we are not. We’re partners, that’s it.” He paused. “You hurt her, you see, and I was not going to let you get away with it.”

“Did you want to take it outside?” Lestrade tried to make it sound like a joke.

“No,” there was not even a hint of amusement in the baritone voice, “just share my thoughts.”

“Oh?”

“Ann Sedgwick is a fine woman and she doesn’t deserve being treated like that.”

“She doesn’t,” Lestrade admitted, “and if circumstances were any different…” he shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to abuse this… my new position. I was not aware, I mean, uh…”

“You owe me no explanation, sir. I understand.” He picked up the mug and added some milk to the steaming liquid. “I will talk to her.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

“I will distract her.” He pursed his lips, then smiled again. “There’s been another finding and if I present it correctly, she will snatch it up and forget all about you.” A small chuckle. “Well, maybe not forget. Women tend not to forget these things…”

“Don’t I know it.”

“… but sometimes, if we’re lucky, they will file them away under ‘nuisance, minor’.”

“Or ‘embarrassment, endured’.” Lestrade made a face. “Listen, if you could do that I’d be most grateful. I like Ann, you know, I really do, and I wanted it to work, but I guess the timing was all off.”

“Some things are beyond our control,” Okoro said diplomatically and with a curt nod and a respectful semi-bow took his leave. Lestrade leaned against the sink, sipped his coffee and closed his eyes. _The Owl has chosen a mate._ Indeed. Interesting how everybody seemed to take that as a given. So why was the man behind the Owl playing hard to get?

 

Mr Holmes was terribly busy over the next days, too. Reviewing documents. Travelling. Called into last-minute negotiations. In short, not available, and after three days of snapping at his team, self-pity and a grudge taking over, Lestrade asked to take Friday afternoon off. Both DI Dimmock and Donovan offered to cover for him and Shielding waved it through without asking twice, and if he hadn’t been so preoccupied nursing his foul mood, Lestrade would have stopped right there and then to ask himself just how bad the past three days had actually been on everybody. Things being as they were, however, he stormed out of the building with barely more than a grunt. Donovan exchanged a glance with Sergeant Millers who occupied the desk opposite hers and shook her head, muttering something about unbalanced hormone levels and the need to get laid. Millers snorted but didn’t reply, having learnt the hard way that it was not for him to make snide remarks about DI Lestrade while Sally Donovan was within earshot. That privilege was hers alone.

******

Lestrade straightened with a groan, having scrubbed his small shower cabin with a fervour that would have made the most determined neurotic proud. He had taken the trash out, done the hoovering, folded and even ironed the clothes that had been peacefully sitting in their laundry basket for, well, for long enough to require ironing, his kitchen was shiny, the bathroom was squeaky clean and now he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

He went to treat himself to a beer but poured a glass of wine instead – the bottle was already open and why waste a perfectly good wine – and dragged himself into his sitting room to slump down on the couch, staring at a blank television screen and trying to come up with plans for a weekend that didn’t include Mycroft or the Owl, and realised he didn’t have any idea what to do with himself. His hunting glove caught his eye and he picked it up from where it lay on the side of the coffee table, stroked the places where Myc’s talons had dug into the fabric and slipped it on. Memories of carrying Myc around, of their ridiculous hop on-hop off games flooded his memory and he bit down on sentiments he would not allow to surface. Just a bloody bird, right? And as for Mycroft… He removed the glove and threw it back on the table, watched it slide across and land on the floor and made no attempt to pick it up. Screw the Holmeses and their touch-me-not attitudes.

Glancing at his watch, he saw it wasn’t even eight yet. Plenty of time to hit the pub for some distraction. Maybe a game of darts. And a pint or two. In other words, get hammered. _Perfect_. He got up, grabbed his wallet and shut the front door behind him with a loud bang, not bothering to change and leaving his car keys behind. He intended to be in no condition to drive by the time he was done drinking.

He noticed neither the sleek black tomcat sitting right next to the small bushes by the bins, nor the sparrow busying itself with a crust of baguette on the pavement.

******

Getting up the next day was painful. Lestrade slowly opened his eyes and immediately squeezed them shut again. It was too bright. Much too bright, and sunshine was overrated anyway. With a groan he turned around to lie on his stomach and the movement made him want to hack his own skull off for the pain it caused him. He pulled the sheet over his head and fell back into an uneasy sleep, haunted by dreams of soft feathers and freckled shoulders, of long fingers and a voice like velvet, dreams of never letting go ever again and fearing to touch at the same time.

When he finally made it out of bed and into his shower, it was past noon and his headache had subsided to a dull throb, no longer nauseating or skull-splitting, and he sat down in his kitchen for a frugal meal consisting of strong tea and two slices of dry toast, trying to analyse the origin of the sudden trepidation that seemed to be spreading in his chest. After a while he gave up on his brooding and decided to go for a run to get his mind back on track. Sitting around, nursing a headache and an oncoming fit of near-hysteria would not be helpful for the problem at hand, and so he pushed back his chair to step outside for a weather check. It was sunny and warm but far from tropical and his mind was quickly made up.

Less than forty-five minutes later he was running along a well frequented path of Battersea Park, earplugs in place and all outside noise blocked out. He ran at a leisurely pace and as his breath became steadier and his muscles started to uncramp, his panic ebbed off, along with what had remained of his headache. The Link to Mycroft was still there, so there was no reason to worry about being cut off just yet, but if he wanted to understand what was going on inside that massive Holmes brain, he would need to return to their last conversation, analyse it, find out what had gone wrong and where, and then walk his way back to where they were today. Review evidence, spot a connection. Basic police work, and he was nothing if not a good policeman. Stubborn, dogged and hard to shake off once his instincts kicked in.

Right. Their last conversation had taken place on Sunday. There had only been time for a quick brunch, Mycroft having returned from one of his mysterious impromptu flights but already expected at Downing Street later that afternoon. Their conversation had mainly revolved around one of Lestrade’s favourite TV shows and its American remake as Mycroft had been too tired to talk politics and unwilling to touch sports, and in addition they had spent some time discussing whether or not Lestrade should book some extra hours at the Met’s firing range (“I’m not good with guns.” “Practice makes perfect, Greg.” “I hate them.” “I don’t expect you to become a sniper. But I do expect my partner to be able to hit a moving target should the need arise, and I would prefer your aim steady enough not to hit me by mistake.”). _My partner._ Lestrade huffed. No, that was not it. What… _wait_. He slowed down and came to a halt. Not Sunday. Monday. Mycroft had asked him if he was free that evening and he had told him to stay away because he was planning… Ann. _Shit_. He rubbed a hand across his face. Of course. Mycroft had sounded a little disappointed but had ended up telling him to have fun and he hadn’t thought to question him. When a runner bumped into him, apologised and ran on, Lestrade stepped off the path and onto the lawn. The branches of an old chestnut tree invited him to take shelter from the sun and he sat down in the shade, pulled his shirt over his head, spread it out behind him and flopped down. Out came the earplugs and he looked up into the tree’s crown, into the pattern of sunshine and leaves.

Mycroft. Why would he be disappointed? Or had he merely disapproved of his choice of companion? He couldn’t remember telling Mycroft about Ann but Mycroft had a way of finding out about things so it was safe to assume he knew of her. Sherlock in any case had strongly disapproved of Ann and hadn’t even tried to hide it. Then again, that was Sherlock, and this was Mycroft. Politician. The British Government, as Sherlock liked to call him when he was being especially testy. Boss Owl. Able to hold two conversation at the same time – one that was spoken aloud, one that was between the lines. But why would he have expected him to read between the lines all of a sudden? What was so… _Oh_. No way. Mycroft wasn’t… was he? _‘The Owl has chosen a mate.’_ Wasn’t that what Okoro had said? What if he hadn’t meant ‘mate’ as in ‘friend’ or ‘partner’, but ‘mate’ as in… mating? He wracked his brain over what he had read about owls, wishing – not for the first time – he could shape his mind into one of those memory palaces Sherlock kept talking about. Wouldn’t that be handy now. But if he remembered correctly, owls were monogamous birds that mated for life. And his little shag had gone horribly wrong because… Oh shit. Oh holy fuck. He covered his face with his hands and groaned.

_It will change you, you know._

_When you Bond, all those neat little pigeonholes just don’t matter anymore._

He let his arms fall to the sides, and his left hand landed on something soft and warm. He jerked it away and half sat up to take a closer look. A rabbit had hopped up to sit beside him and was now looking back at him, head sideways, nose twitching, one ear facing his way, the other turned backwards. Lestrade smiled and scratched its forehead.

“Well hello there,” he said and lay back down again. “I’m sorry but I have nothing to eat for you.”

_::That’s quite alright, sir. I’m glad to see you’re well.::_

_::Do I know you?::_ It seemed he was surrounded by Shifters and Weres – Shielding, Thornton, Okoro, squirrels, rabbits. How could one walk through one’s days without being aware of that whole world hidden beneath the surface? He tried to remember what it had felt like before, not knowing, not hearing, and found it was escaping him.

 _::We haven’t been formally introduced yet.::_ The rabbit sat back on its haunches and dipped its head. _::The name is Max and I’m on patrol duty this afternoon.::_

_::Pleased to meet you, Max. My name’s Greg.::_

_::I know who you are. We all do.::_

_::Do you?::_

_::Certainly. You’re the Owl’s chosen partner.::_

There it was again. No-one seemed to doubt it. They all took it for a fact, and he bit back another groan. Max hopped a little closer and Lestrade started scratching his back.

_::I’m not keeping you from your duties, am I?::_

_::It’s okay, sir, I’ll just take an early break. I’m not alone on my shift.::_

_::Glad to hear it. All going well in Battersea Park then?::_

_::Nothing to report. It’s a nice and quiet Saturday afternoon, despite the crowds.::_

Max stretched out next to him and Lestrade started playing with the rabbit’s ears. They were warm and soft, but not as soft and lovely as Myc’s tufts. And while it was nice and soothing to scratch the brown fur, it wasn’t Myc’s fluffy feathers and the little twitching nose was no match for Myc’s majestic beak. God, to lie in the shade of an old tree with his Owl sitting next to him like that. He grit his teeth and fought to keep his breath under control.

“Mum, look, the man is stroking a bunny rabbit!”

The excited voice of a child hauled him out of his musings and he raised his head. A small boy in denim shorts and a striped t-shirt was pulling at his mother’s hand, pointing at him. His mother interrupted the conversation she was having with a teenage girl and turned to look at him. Her gaze travelled along his bare upper body and he thought he saw an appreciative smile flicker across her face. He smiled back and waved at the boy.

 _::Off with you, Max, before he comes over to play with the bunny rabbit,::_ he warned but Max had already spotted the potential danger, long ears flicking nervously.

_::Thank you, sir. Have a pleasant weekend.::_

_::You too.::_

Max hopped off and the boy started crying. “Why is it running away?”

“Maybe it had some urgent rabbit business to take care of,” his mother suggested and pulled her son close to comfort him. “I’m sure there’s plenty to do. Let’s go to the pond. You can feed the duckies there, yes?”

“Do you think the hissing swans will be there, too?”

“I’m sure they will be but remember, you must not get too close. Swans are awfully big.”

“But Mum, they’re so pretty. Can I feed them, too?”

“You can, but you must promise to keep your distance.”

“I promise. I promise, Mum. Can we go now?”

Lestrade smiled at the eagerness in the boy’s voice and he watched him jump up and down in excitement. What was a bunny rabbit in comparison to a hissing swan? He watched the small group wander off in the opposite direction and met the mother’s eyes when she turned around one last time to look at him. He nodded and flopped back on the grass. His eyes closed after a while and he dozed off, voices and footsteps and dogs barking fading into the background until they were little more than a faint hum.

When something landed on his chest, he jolted awake. Shielding his eyes against the sun that peeked through the leaves, he squinted up and recognised the tall frame of Sherlock Holmes towering over him, impeccably dressed in a dark tailored suit and a burgundy shirt. The expression on his face was that of detached interest, as one might watch a fascinating beetle scuttle by.

“What’s that?” Lestrade asked in lieu of a greeting, fingering a piece of plastic the size of a credit card.

“It’s a keycard to Mycroft’s flat. I’m not entirely certain if the code’s been reprogrammed in the meantime. The card is a couple of months old.”

“He doesn’t update your key?” With a yawn he sat up and eyed the inconspicuous white plastic card.

“Technically, it’s not mine.”

“How did you –” Lestrade began but stopped himself when Sherlock raised a haughty eyebrow.

“Problem?”

“Uh, I guess not. But why, Sherlock?”

“Because I can, and because it annoys him.”

“No, not that. Why give it to me?”

“Because he’s pining. You both are.” It was delivered with a hint of disgust. “It’s disgraceful. You need to do something about it.”

“Me? Why should I do anything? He’s the one shutting me out.”

“That’s why you have a key now. You think I’m holding people at arm’s length? You have no idea. Mycroft is very good at denying himself what he wants most.” He crouched down to meet Lestrade at eye level. “It’s up to you. You have to go to him.”

“But I don’t –”

Sherlock cut him off in mid-sentence. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s written all over you. It’s written all over him. Your little world ceased to exist the day you invited the Owl into your life.” He touched his finger to Lestrade’s forehead. “How much longer will it take your brain to catch up?” He stood up with a fluid grace that reminded Lestrade so much of Mycroft that he had to bite his lip. “Please don’t tell me you think it would unman you.”

Lestrade reached for his shirt and put it back on, then stood up – with a lot less grace than Sherlock – and met the detective’s cool eyes.

“No,” he slowly said, “it wouldn’t. Nothing short of castration will unman me, and I doubt that’s what Mycroft has in mind.”

Sherlock winced. “Please don’t elaborate,” he said with a theatrical shudder. “There are places even I refuse to go.” He didn’t say which of the two concepts he found so revolting, the act of castration or the idea of his brother harbouring unchaste thoughts, and Lestrade felt his face split into a wide grin.

“Thank you, Sherlock.” He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he repeated. Sherlock shrugged but one side of his mouth curved into one of his lopsided grins, giving him away. He turned and strolled off without saying another word. Lestrade put the card into the small wallet he took with him when he went running, fumbled in his pockets for his earplugs, put them into his ears, chose his favourite running compilation and after a brief warm-up ran back the way he had come.

******

Sherlock hadn’t offered any explanation on how the card worked and Lestrade pursed his lips as he stood before the door to Mycroft’s flat, fishing in his memories for the last time he had stayed at a hotel with swipe cards instead of keys. There was no slit to actually swipe the card through so he experimentally held it against the white reader. The door clicked open with a discreet beep. He stepped inside and cocked his head to listen. Cello music was coming from the direction of the living room but Lestrade wasn’t sure whether it was a CD or Mycroft playing. Following an impulse, he removed his shoes, placed them right next to the door and on stockinged feet made his way towards the music.

Mycroft was sitting with his cello between his knees, still in his suit but without jacket and tie, the first two collar buttons of his shirt open, sleeves rolled up. His eyes were closed. Either he hadn’t noticed Lestrade’s presence or he was ignoring him. Knowing the Holmes brothers, Lestrade suspected the latter but didn’t dare move anyway. He stood, transfixed and listened, allowing the music into his soul to make his heart simultaneously weep and sing as only an expertly played string instrument could. His eyes were drawn to Mycroft’s long fingers, as always, left hand pressing down on the strings, right hand holding the bow in a gentle grip, and at the same time – as if he were watching with two sets of eyes – he noticed the exposed throat, that vulnerable spot where neck met shoulder, and thought he saw Mycroft’s pulse. Lickable. Begging to be kissed. A surge of desire shot through him, impossible to ignore any longer. It – whatever ‘it’ entailed – was changing him, had already changed him and right now, this very instant, he couldn’t care less about labelling.

Mycroft pulled the bow across the strings one last time, making the note last and leave an echo, then opened his eyes. For a moment he was completely unguarded and Lestrade’s breath hitched in his throat as a mixture of longing and sadness and resignation washed over him, followed by a faint breeze of hope, like an afterthought. It made him dizzy and he was grateful he had chosen to stand next to the sofa which enabled him to place his hands on the backrest, for all the world appearing as if he was leaning nonchalantly when nothing could be farther from the truth. Mycroft slowly stood, placed the cello on its stand, wiped the bow and then placed it into its holder.

“Greg,” he said in a carefully measured tone. “What brings you here?”

“You,” Lestrade stated simply. “You do.”

“I don’t remember seeing your name on this weekend’s agenda.”

“And that’s precisely why I’m here. I haven’t been able to reach you all week. Why is that?”

“I was under the impression you had all the company you needed.”

“Well, seems that for once you’ve been labouring under a misconception, Mr Holmes.” Lestrade let go of the couch and took a few careful steps in Mycroft’s direction. Mycroft didn’t back off but didn’t move as much as a finger to greet him, either.

“How so?”

“I had company alright, and yeah, company I thought I wanted. Turns out what you want isn’t always what you need or what’s good for you.”

“What do you need, then?”

Lestrade cocked his head as if mulling it over, but answered with a question of his own. “Why did you shut me out?”

“Because you didn’t.” It was delivered with a hint of acid and Lestrade blinked.

“Come again?”

“One does not keep one’s Shield open at all times. You should know better by now.”

“Keep one’s Shield… oh!” He covered his mouth with both hands, mortified to the core as realisation hit him. He saw one aristocratic eyebrow arch at the gesture that was so unlike him and quickly brought his hands down again. “I am sorry. I am so very, very sorry, Mycroft. I didn’t think…”

“That much was obvious,” Mycroft said, a little testily.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes when a thought crossed his mind. “And why didn’t you block me out once you knew what was going on? Works both ways, doesn’t it.” He watched with interest as a treacherous blush crept up Mycroft’s neck.

“You woke me up. By the time I realised what was happening, it was too late.”

“Bollocks. Too late my arse. You’re the boss, the ruler of all, remember? You can clip a Link with the blink of an eye.”

“I was tired.” It sounded lame and it was Lestrade’s turn to raise his eyebrows. Mycroft had the grace to look embarrassed.

“You were enjoying it,” Lestrade said mock-accusingly but the laughter in his voice gave him away. “You’re a perv, Mycroft Holmes.”

“And you should be made illegal,” Mycroft shot back.

“Is that so.”

“I cannot allow for nightly disturbances such as this.”

“Oh yeah?” Lestrade inched closer but Mycroft remained where he was, his eyes never leaving Lestrade’s face.

“I should file a motion for a law detailing the handling of one Gregory Lestrade.”

“Is that Holmes speech for saying I’m hot?”

“If you asked me to rephrase the above with the use of only two syllables, then yes, that might be an acceptable way of stating the obvious.”

“Mhm.” Lestrade scratched his jaw, stubble rasping. “And the subliminal message tells me a professional police officer is not qualified to handle me?”

“Quite so.” Mycroft raised his chin and looked at Lestrade along his long nose. “Precision weapons should be left to professionals.”

“Precision weapon, huh?” Lestrade stepped right into Mycroft’s personal space. “Answer me truthfully, Mycroft. Were you enjoying it?”

“Yes.” It was delivered matter-of-factly. “And I would have enjoyed it even more if it had been me instead of her.”

 

It was out. Finally. Lestrade inhaled sharply and looked away, and Mycroft bit his lower lip, wondering if Lestrade could hear the mad drum of his heart. Certain he had just ruined everything beyond saving, he opened his mouth to make a witty remark about the discrepancy between fact and fiction when Lestrade took one last step to close the distance between them and hauled him in by his waistcoat, bringing their mouths together with a force that had Mycroft worry about his incisors. He gasped and Lestrade immediately broke away.

Mycroft brought a hand up to his lips and frowned when he saw blood. “Are you sure you’ve done this before?”

Lestrade looked down. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “that was a stupid idea.”

“Not at all.” Mycroft placed a finger underneath Lestrade’s chin, forcing his face up. “Allow me.”

Lestrade nodded. Mycroft saw his Adam’s apple move and fought the urge to bend down and suck on it. Instead, he slid one hand around Lestrade’s waist so it came to lie at the small of his back and with the other, he gently tilted Lestrade’s chin up and to the side. Lestrade’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, indecision and curiosity showing in his eyes. Mycroft pressed his mouth gently on Lestrade’s and his eyes fluttered close, robbing him of the chance to watch and analyse, but when Lestrade’s hands curled around his upper arms, all of his other senses flared up, ready for input and eager for data.

Something tickled at the closed seam of his mouth and he parted his lips invitingly to let Lestrade’s tongue slide inside where it hovered over his, warm and wet, before it touched down ever so carefully.

_::This. Oh God. You.::_

Neither man could have said who had actually Voiced it but it was there, in both of their heads, and Mycroft felt his knees go weak with… relief? Lust? Gratitude? All of this, and something else. A small part of his brain noticed he was fisting Lestrade’s shirt, rucking it up, and he let go, but his hand immediately snaked underneath the fabric with a will of its own and came to rest on warm skin, finally touching what he had wanted to touch since their first weekend together, marvelling at the warmth he found there. Strictly speaking, Lestrade’s skin wasn’t warmer than that of any other human being and yet there seemed another quality to it, and it crept into Mycroft’s veins until each fibre of his body hummed with contentment. Lestrade started at the initial touch but instead of squirming away, he cupped Mycroft’s face with both hands and deepened their kiss, exploring Mycroft’s mouth, plundering it, his tongue swirling around Mycroft’s without haste. He kissed him with complete abandon, and he tasted of coffee (black, two sugars, no milk), of cigarette (very faintly), of spearmint (chewing gum) and of Greg Lestrade (intoxicating), and it made Mycroft’s head swim, leaving him dizzy and wanting. Lestrade’s tongue tickled the underside of his, coaxing it to follow and Mycroft obliged, and then it was his turn to explore and plunder. His hand left the patch of bare skin it had conquered and came to lie on a well-rounded bum cheek, and his other hand followed to cup the second one. It was a firm arse, just as he had anticipated and it fitted neatly into the curve of his hands. He squeezed and pulled Lestrade closer, bringing their hips together. Lestrade moaned into their kiss and rocked his hips forward. His physical reaction was unmistakable and Mycroft felt his own body respond in kind.

He broke the kiss and buried his face in the crook of Lestrade’s neck, inhaling deeply.

“Sandalwood,” he murmured and nibbled his way along Lestrade’s neck. He touched his tongue to the sensitive spot behind the ear and Lestrade tilted his head with a sigh.

“Is it always like this?” It was barely audible and Mycroft smiled against Lestrade’s pulse.

“No. It isn’t.” _::Only with you. Only ever with you.::_

“Oh God, I want…” He swallowed. “I need…” He broke off, uncertain, and his tongue darted out once more. Mycroft watched the pink tip appear and disappear and tightened his grip on Lestrade’s arse.

“What is it you want, Greg? What do you need?” Desire oozed from Lestrade’s every pore but Mycroft needed to hear it spoken for this was too fragile for assumptions. Lestrade had never lied about his preferences and Mycroft had accepted it, but although he knew set borders tended to shift when a Bond urged to form, he needed to be sure. The slightest hesitation, the merest hint at discomfort, and he would put an end to this.

Lestrade’s eyes met his and as the dark brown of his irises started to glow amber, Mycroft knew what the answer was going to be.

“This. I need this.” It came out huskily, breathed against the corner of his mouth. “I want you, Myc. All of you. Please. If you’ll have me.”

Mycroft breathed out on a long exhale. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding his breath and he brought their foreheads together, his hands on Lestrade’s shoulders. Lestrade mirrored his posture and they stood like this for a few seconds, neither of them daring to speak, caught up in that one magic moment full of promises, where there were no doubts and everything seemed possible.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft finally asked, his voice little more than a whisper. Lestrade didn’t reply but reached for Mycroft’s right hand instead, brought it between their bodies and pushed it down until it came to rest at the front of his jeans.

“What do you think?”

Mycroft let his hand lie still for a moment, then traced the outline of Lestrade’s cock with his fingertips. He turned his hand and curled his fingers, cupping Lestrade’s balls and pressed the heel of his hand against the hardening ridge. Lestrade swallowed audibly and put his hands on Mycroft’s hips, his forehead still against Mycroft’s. He shifted, widened his stance and rocked against Mycroft’s palm, then licked into Mycroft’s mouth with a bold sweep of his tongue. His hands wandered around Mycroft’s hips to came to lie on his arse and with an approving sound he brought them together – not that there was much of a distance to cross anymore. Mycroft hastily pulled his hand out of the danger zone and yanked Lestrade’s shirt up instead to splay both of his hands on Lestrade’s back, grinding his hips against Lestrade’s who moaned into their kiss and rubbed their erections together, all indecision gone.

Mycroft reached for the hem of Lestrade’s shirt and started pulling it up, determined to remove the annoying layer as quickly as possible. Lestrade interrupted the kiss with an unwilling growl but lifted his arms for long enough and the shirt landed on the floor, along with Mycroft’s waistcoat. He immediately claimed Mycroft’s mouth for another kiss, and Mycroft started push-pulling him into the direction of his bedroom. Lestrade didn’t seem to mind or object, instead, Mycroft felt him smile against his lips and they awkwardly shuffled along the hall, unwilling to let their mouths part even for the few seconds it took to get across the hall.

With one hand, Mycroft pushed the bedroom door open and Lestrade started fumbling with the buttons of Mycroft’s shirt.

“The hell, Myc? What’s with that?”

“What is it?”

“The bloody buttons. They’re all wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the buttons.”

“No, they’re all… wait. Of course,” he laughed softly, “I see. They’re like mine.”

Mycroft frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve never undressed another bloke before. Women’s buttons are the other way.”

“Need help?”

“Thanks but I think I can do it now that I’ve figured it out.” He made quick work of Mycroft’s shirt and undershirt, and the expensive pieces fell as carelessly to the floor as Lestrade’s ordinary cotton shirt had. Lestrade let his hands roam along Mycroft’s bare upper body.

“Chesthair,” he chuckled.

“Do you mind?” It came out a little self-conscious, hesitant, but whatever problem he thought Lestrade was having was laughed away and Lestrade rubbed against him like a big cat.

“Quite the contrary. I like it. It’s sexy. Unexpected.”

“Greg, you’ve seen me without clothes before,” he pointed out.

Lestrade pffft to that. “I looked, but I didn’t see. Isn’t that what Sherlock always says?”

“You see, but you do not observe,” he corrected. “And please let’s keep Sherlock out of this, yes?”

A low hum was the answer to that and he smiled when he felt his trousers being unzipped and unbuttoned. Greg Lestrade was nothing if not goal-oriented now that his mind was made up, and Mycroft watched his eyes widen when his hand found what it had been looking for.

“That feels odd,” Lestrade stated and Mycroft huffed.

“I do beg your pardon but I believe our basic anatomy is mostly alike.”

Lestrade squeezed and Mycroft hissed. “That’s not what I meant,” Lestrade chided and Mycroft asked, “Have you never, uh, played around with other boys at school?”

“Boys, yes, ages ago. A grown man, no.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult to think when those strong fingers brushed experimentally across his length, rubbing over the fabric of his briefs, then dipped down between his legs to squeeze once more, this time with a gentle, steady pressure that made him gasp.

He pushed Lestrade’s hand away and popped the buttons of his jeans open, one by one, hooked his thumbs into the waistband and searched Lestrade’s face, seeking permission. When there was no response other than a sharp intake of breath, he sank to his knees, pulling jeans and briefs down with him. Lestrade stepped out of one trouser leg, then the other, and Mycroft pulled off his socks, too, then sat back on his heels and looked at the man standing before him, tall and proud and without even a hint of discomfort at his nakedness. Lestrade was clearly comfortable in his skin and as Mycroft let his eyes travel along his body, taking in each and every detail, he raised his chin and asked, “Do you like what you see?” His voice was huskier than usual and Mycroft nodded, not trusting his voice, and placed his hands on Lestrade’s calves. The contact sent myriads of sparks through him. Lestrade must have felt it, too, because his cock twitched and grew some more. It was too tempting for Mycroft to resist and he leaned forward on his knees, slid his hands up Lestrade’s legs until they came to rest on the back of his strong thighs, and licked along the rigid shaft in one long upward stroke. Lestrade gave a low groan, balling his fists by his side, and thus encouraged, Mycroft sucked the tip between his lips. Lestrade’s hips jerked forward, as if on autopilot.

“Oh God, sorry.” It came out from behind clenched teeth and Mycroft grabbed his hips to pull him closer, encouraging him forward, and swirled his tongue around the glans. Lestrade’s hand landed on his head, not pushing or pulling but seeking contact, seeking to steady himself. Mycroft chuckled, knowing full well how this would send vibrations along Lestrade’s cock, and as if to confirm, Lestrade’s fingers buried themselves in Mycroft’s hair. The scent of Lestrade’ bodywash mixed with the scent of his arousal, a heady combination that made Mycroft close his eyes and inhale deeply through his nose. His grip on Lestrade’s hips tightened and he sucked more of his prick into his mouth, flattening his tongue on the intake, zigzagging on the retreat, tracing the veins on the underside that grew more prominent as Lestrade’s arousal increased. Lestrade started rocking his hips in slow, careful motions and Mycroft hummed his approval. He buried his nose in the dark curls and swallowed around Lestrade’s prick which earned him a low, throaty moan and he opened his eyes again to look up into Lestrade’s face. Lestrade was watching him through half-lidded eyes, lower lip caught between his teeth. When he saw Mycroft look up at him, he curled his hand around the back of Mycroft’s neck.

 

“Ah _fuck_ , Myc.” He reached for him and Mycroft obliged, shimmying up and along Lestrade’s frame with the same grace that Lestrade had admired in Sherlock not too long ago. Only this wasn’t Sherlock, and he was still wearing his trousers.

“Strip,” he commanded and again, Mycroft hurried to oblige. Lestrade let himself be pushed toward the bed and they tumbled down on cool sheets in a tangle of limbs. Mycroft’s elbow crushed into Lestrade’s solar plexus, making him wheeze and grunt at the same time but he wrapped his arms around Mycroft at once and pulled him in for yet another kiss. God, that man’s mouth, those beautiful straight lips, and that tongue, that wicked, agile tongue. The memory of Mycroft’s tongue swirling around his prick made him grow another inch, he thought, or maybe two, who cared. What a difference to what he was used to. He’d been lucky enough to find a wife who had enjoyed giving head as much as he enjoyed getting it, and yet, it was like comparing the proverbial apples to pears. She had been appreciative and enthusiastic whereas Mycroft was appreciative and… knowledgeable. Knowing exactly what pleased the most.

He groaned and sucked on Mycroft’s tongue, making him moan in return and buck against him. He shifted, Mycroft followed and they came to lie face-to-face with each other. It was time to discover the mystery that was a second male body, and Lestrade set out to explore thoroughly, taking his time mapping Mycroft Holmes with his hands, and lips, and tongue. Watching, touching, licking, gauging reactions, sucking, and nibbling on skin that felt nothing like a woman’s. Mycroft was lean and angled where Lestrade was used to finding softness and curves, was hairy where he was used to touching smooth skin, his hand found hardness instead of wet heat, and his scent… it was woodsy and spicy, clean and musky, all at once, and it filled his senses and flooded his system until there was no room in his head for anything but this man. He went gently at first, like he always did with first time lovers but the tactics that had worked so well on his female companions and the kinds of touches Myc the Owl favoured weren’t enough for Mycroft the man. Oh, he seemed to enjoy being caressed with soft touches well enough, responding with sighs and small sounds of encouragement and pleasure, but it wasn’t before Lestrade grew bolder, applying more pressure, gripping and kneading harder and more demanding, that the lithe frame started squirming and writhing and the sighs turned into throaty moans. Lestrade began to understand that while it was all new to him, it was familiar territory at the same time and Mycroft responded to the same stimuli he liked best, too. He buried his nose in auburn chest hair and pulled away laughing when it tickled him.

Had anybody told him half a year ago he would find himself in bed with another man, snogging like a twenty-something and sporting a hard-on like… like a twenty-something, he would have asked if there was a new recreational drug on the market and whether medical assistance was needed. Not being prone to homophobia did not necessarily entail being interested in exploring his own gender. And yet… it seemed he couldn’t get enough of this man, and he rubbed his face against the flat planes of Mycroft’s chest once more.

_You know, pieces missing here, extra bits there._

Wasn’t that how Mackles had phrased it? He found he didn’t miss the missing pieces all that much, and as for the extra bits… well. He reached down and trailed a finger along Mycroft’s prick, marvelling at its velvety hardness, rubbed his thumb across the moist tip and wrapped his fingers around the shaft.

“Christ, Greg!” Mycroft’s hips snapped forward at once, and he fisted him a bit harder, eliciting a deep groan and another frantic push. His own prick reacted with an interested twitch and he threw his leg across Mycroft’s hips, pushing forward, wanting… what? He wasn’t sure what exactly it was he wanted, but then Mycroft wrapped his long fingers around his cock and he started humping mindlessly, let go of Mycroft and gasped with lust when Mycroft brought their cocks together. The friction, the rubbing and pushing of their combined heat and hardness was like nothing he had ever experienced and he whined when Mycroft removed his hand.

“The _fuck_ , Myc. Come back!” he pleaded but Mycroft stretched out of reach, opened the drawer of his bedside table and turned to face him with a grin, holding up a blue bottle.

“Care to play some more?” he offered and Lestrade nodded silently. Mycroft clicked the bottle open. “Hold out your hand.”

Their eyes met and Lestrade shook his head. He knew what he wanted. Hadn’t known a few seconds ago but now he did.

“Will you fuck me?”

Mycroft stopped in mid-movement. “What was that?”

“I said,” Lestrade repeated slowly, “will you fuck me?” He reached for Mycroft’s hand. “Please,” he said, “please, I want you. I need you to fuck me so I can believe it’s real.”

The bottle fell down on the sheets when Mycroft swooped down on him, bringing their mouths together in a crushing kiss. Lestrade pressed himself against Mycroft’s thigh, rolling his hips and rubbing his prick against him.

“Please,” he breathed against Mycroft’s lips and Mycroft raised his head to study his face, and when Lestrade Felt him Reach, he opened up completely, Transporting lust and desire and curiosity and _horny_ until Mycroft’s smile wrinkles deepened and he nodded. He fumbled for the bottle, clicked it open and squirted some of the transparent gel on his hand, brought his palms together to warm it, then slicked his left hand up. _His cellist hand._ The one that pressed the strings down. The one with the calloused fingertips. Lestrade spread his legs in wordless invitation.

Mycroft circled his puckered opening and Lestrade held very still when the first finger entered him, very slowly and very carefully, and after a few nervous breaths he relaxed. It wasn’t precisely unfamiliar. He did take his medicals seriously, and his latest cancer check had been less than half a year ago. Still, having a finger up his arse wasn’t the huge turn-on Mackles had raved about…

“Aaaaah, _Christ_.”

“Like that?” Mycroft looked positively smug and Lestrade opened his mouth for a retort when, “Bloody hell, Myc… oh fuck fuck _fuck_!”

Before he knew what he was doing, he pushed down and against the finger buried inside him. “God, do that again.” This time he felt Mycroft’s hand twist and another jolt shot through him. “Right there, _yes_ , oh fuck yeah!”

He spread his legs some more and hissed when Mycroft pulled out of him, only to push back inside with one smooth move. He lifted his head to see what was going on but from this angle, there wasn’t a lot to see and so he dropped his head on the pillow and concentrated on the feeling, letting himself be finger-fucked into a state of mindless bliss. When Mycroft added a second finger to widen and prepare him further, Lestrade felt his balls tighten and knew he was close.

“Please, Myc, _please_ , I can’t wait… oh God, _aaah_ … will you fuck me already?”

Mycroft removed his fingers with a wet sound and Lestrade felt his arse clench.

“You sure?”

“Christ, do I look like I’m lying?”

Mycroft looked at Lestrade’s cock, flushed and fully engorged, and smiled. “I guess not.” He turned to reach into the drawer and Lestrade rubbed himself against him, sliding his prick between Mycroft’s pale buttocks. Mycroft froze, then tilted his pelvis back with a throaty moan. “Greg, if you’d rather –”

Lestrade bit down on a freckled shoulder and Mycroft drew a sharp breath. “No, I want you to fuck me. I was merely testing the playground for later.”

A plastic wrapping was ripped open and Mycroft turned to face Lestrade with an expression that was hard to read. “For later?”

“For later,” Lestrade confirmed. “Don’t you believe for one second I don’t want a piece of your arse. I want it. Badly. But I want your cock more.” He watched as Mycroft slowly rolled the condom on. _What a shame to cover that beauty in latex._ “How do I, ah –”

“On your hands and knees,” Mycroft suggested. “It will be easier for you that way. It is your first time, so to speak.”

“That’s right. I’m a virgin.” He sat up and reached for Mycroft, begging for another kiss which was freely given, and generously, too. Their pricks touched but the feeling was different from what it had been before, the latex sheath a subtle divider between them, and Lestrade was a little taken aback about how much it bothered him. He turned around and got on his hands and knees and waited. He heard the lube bottle click open once more, heard the squirting sound and heard Mycroft slick himself up. He hung his head, suddenly nervous. What was he doing? Was it going to work? He started when Mycroft inserted a finger.

“Relax, Greg, all is well. You seemed to like it a moment ago.”

“I did,” he said, but there was doubt in his voice. He heard it, and it echoed in his heart and made his erection shrivel. Had he? Liked it?

He felt Mycroft shift into place and he stiffened when he felt the blunt cockhead probe at his entrance.

“Ready?” Mycroft asked and he nodded, numbly. Mycroft started pushing inside, slowly, and his whole body tensed. _Oh God, it hurts._ It burnt, and it would split him. Oh fuck, such pain. It was too much, _too fucking big_ , and it was plain _wrong_.

“Stop, Mycroft, please stop,” he panted. “I can’t do this.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft went very still. Lestrade moved away from him and dropped to his side, averting his eyes. He sat back on his heels, thunderstruck. How could he have been so stupid? So… ignorant? Letting his prick take over so completely? He should have known better. Willing was no synonym for ready, but he had so longed for this to happen, had dreamt about this… had wanted this man for such a long time, still wanted him, desperately, and having him in his bed at long last, trusting, willing to breach yet another line – it had put him in sensory overload and he had failed to pay attention. With hands that were not quite steady he removed the condom from his wilting erection and dropped it carelessly on the floor. He looked up to the ceiling, trying to get his heartbeat under control, and started when Lestrade placed a hand on his thigh.

“Not like this, Myc.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

Lestrade propped himself up on an elbow. “I can’t do it like this,” he repeated. “Not yet.”

Mycroft shook his head, not understanding. “What do you mean?” God, he really was slow. “Greg?”

“Not knowing what’s going on.” He sat up on his knees, too, and reached for Mycroft’s hand. “From behind. It could be anyone, you know? I mean, I know it’s you, of course, who else, but I need to see you, too. I need to get it into my head all right and proper, and I need to _see_ it’s really you.”

“Does that mean…” Mycroft cleared his throat, “do you still want me?”

Lestrade frowned. “Of course I do. What makes you say that?” He followed Mycroft’s gaze to his shrivelled prick. “That. Ah. Well. I guess,” he looked to the side, then up and into Mycroft’s eyes, “I’m nervous.” He laughed, embarrassed. “I’m scared. And if you quote this in public I will deny it to my dying breath.”

Mycroft brought Lestrade’s hand up and kissed his knuckles. “I will not breathe a word. I swear. I should not have pushed you like that. Forgive me.”

“Bollocks. You didn’t push me. I asked for it, remember?” He leaned forward and placed a warm hand on the nape of Mycroft’s neck, pulling him up and against him. “I still want you,” he reassured him and touched his lips to Mycroft’s mouth, caressing it more than kissing it, and the touch sang through Mycroft’s veins. He curled his hands around Lestrade’s flanks and let himself be pulled down on the cool cotton sheets. They kissed slowly, unhurriedly, and when Lestrade’s body relaxed against his, he wrapped him tightly in his arms and sighed into their kiss, dizzy with relief. As Lestrade’s kisses grew bolder and more demanding, Mycroft felt his prick stir with renewed interest but he didn’t dare move, tried holding himself in check this time until something poked against his thigh.

Lestrade chuckled. “Well, look who’s back.”

Mycroft looked down between them and grinned. “Seems there’s been no permanent damage.”

“Lord, I hope not. I have plans for future use, you know.” He rolled his hips and Mycroft couldn’t hold the hungry sound back. It escaped his throat, needy and urgent, and it made his grip on Lestrade’s sides tighten, made him push back experimentally. It was the spark that was needed to rekindle their lust for each other and soon they were writhing and panting once more, hips rocking, cock rubbing against cock, balls brushing against balls, hands grabbing and squeezing, a mad tangle of arms and legs.

“Try again, please?” Lestrade’s voice was hoarse with desire and Mycroft nodded against his thigh where he had begun to suck a mark into place.

“How do you want it?”

“So that I can see you. Can we, ah, do a missionary?”

Mycroft thought he detected a trace of uncertainty and slid up until they were at eye level. “We can do whatever you want, in whatever way you want it. I believe you will find the basic technique to be almost identical to what you’re used to. Only the angle is a bit different.”

Lestrade worried his lower lip, and Mycroft’s tongue darted out to touch. “Your call, Greg. You decide.” He reached for his drawer to fish for a condom but stopped in mid-movement when he felt Lestrade’s hand on his side.

“Do we have to?”

“What?”

“The condom? It’s a bit of a turn-off.”

“Greg,” he said patiently, turning to face him, small plastic square between his fingers. “Of course we have to.” He added after a tiny pause, “At least for now.”

“But are you…” Lestrade broke off when Mycroft placed a finger across his lips.

“Shhh. Yes, I’m clean and before you even ask, no, I have not hacked into your medical records to check up on you. I will believe you if you tell me you’re clean, too, but until we have both been tested, there will be protection. Unless,” he reached as if to place the condom back into the drawer, “you want to wait until then? We could do that, too.” He laughed when Lestrade hauled him back.

“Come here, you bloody tease. Put the damn thing on.”

He ripped the plastic open, rolled the condom over his cock and reached for the lube.

“May I?” Lestrade took the bottle from him. He clicked it open and squirted some on his hand.

“More,” Mycroft said in a thick voice, “you’ll want a bit more. Unfortunately men don’t come with natural lubrication.”

“Oh. Of course.” He squeezed the bottle some more. “Like that?”

“Like that.”

Lestrade brought his hand up and sniffed. “Doesn’t smell like anything.” He sounded a bit disappointed and Mycroft stifled a laugh.

“I am sure we can find scented lube that meets with your approval. I believe cherry is relatively popular.”

“Cherry.” There was disgust in Lestrade’s voice and now Mycroft did laugh.

“Or cinnamon,” he suggested. “I’ve used cinnamon once and found it not entirely unpleasant.” He hissed when Lestrade wrapped his hand around his cock without warning.

“Cinnamon, eh,” he moved his fist in steady up and down movements, “want me to lick your cinnamon stick?”

“If you wish,” he croaked, brain clouding over. “Ah, Greg, _yesss_ , like that.”

“Good?”

“Perfect.”

Lestrade let himself fall back and pulled Mycroft with him. His lips parted willingly, as did his legs, and Mycroft positioned himself.

“Are you really sure, Greg?”

Their eyes locked and Lestrade nodded. “Now I am.” There was no doubt or hesitation in his voice, but when Mycroft started pushing inside, he saw him clench his teeth. Acting on impulse, he flipped them over in one smooth move so he ended up underneath Lestrade whose eyes narrowed.

“What are you doing?”

“How about you get on top. That way, you’ll be in control.”

Lestrade propped himself up on his elbows and stared at Mycroft. “Can we do that?”

“Greg,” Mycroft said, amused, “didn’t I tell you a few minutes ago we can do pretty much everything? Of course you can be on top. I’m sure you’ve had one or two of your lady friends straddle you, yes?” He watched as Lestrade’s eyes darkened and there was his answer. “There you go.” He crossed his arms behind his head. “I want you to ride me into the mattress. Think you can do that?” He felt Lestrade’s cock twitch against his and bit his lips. This was going to be his challenge, lie still and let Greg take his pleasure, but as he watched him get on his knees, spreading his legs over Mycroft’s hips, he knew it would be a tiny investment in comparison to the expected return.

“Help me, Myc, please.”

Mycroft nodded, aligned his prick with one hand and directed Lestrade with the other. When the head of his cock pushed past the first ring of muscles, both men drew a hissing breath and Mycroft dug his head back and into the mattress. It was intense, so tight and so hot, like tiny flames licking along his prick and up to his navel, and he gripped his sheets, moaning through clenched teeth as if in pain. Lestrade stopped halfway and Mycroft held still, understanding his body needed time to adjust.

“Does that feel good?”

“Oh God yes.” He pushed himself up into a half-sitting position and immediately Lestrade leaned forward to claim his mouth, cupping his face with his hands, forcing his lips open with his thrusting tongue. Mycroft placed his hands high on Lestrade’s legs where hips and thighs were joined, and brushed his thumbs across the sensitive skin on the inside. Lestrade gasped into his mouth and sank down all the way.

“Bloody hell Myc, you’re so fucking _big_.”

Mycroft supported himself on one elbow, put one arm around Lestrade’s shoulders and buried his face in the crook of his neck. “No man will ever object to hearing that.”

Lestrade laughed a little shakily, but didn’t move for the next few breaths. Neither did Mycroft, although the urge to thrust up and into that tight, hot hole threatened to overwhelm him. Then Lestrade let go of Mycroft, straightened, rocked his hips tentatively and Mycroft looked up just in time to see the look of surprise on his face.

“Greg?”

“It doesn’t hurt. I mean, it’s still uncomfortable but it’s OK. It doesn’t burn the way it did before.”

“I aim to please – _aaaah_!”

Lestrade rocked his hips some more and Mycroft flopped back on the bed, arms to the sides, breathing through his nose on the inhale and through his mouth on the exhale in an attempt to keep himself under control. The sight of Lestrade lifting himself up until only the tip of Mycroft’s cock was buried inside him did not help, and when he came down again in one swift glide, he clutched his sheets once more, praying for strength. Lestrade tried a few more moves and angles, experimenting, and then,

“Aaaaah _fuuuuck_ Myc,” his head fell back to expose his throat. He must have found a position that brought the pleasure he had been looking for and he gave a filthy, guttural groan and spread his legs wider, putting himself on full display.

Mycroft balled his hands into tight fists, felt his nails dig into his palms but didn’t care one bit. Greg Lestrade was a handsome man, disturbingly attractive even in the drab suits he favoured for work. But Greg Lestrade giving himself over to physical pleasure was a piece of art. The veins on the sides of his neck stood out, his muscles looked almost chiselled as they flexed with his movements, there was a fine sheen of sweat on his chest and his cock was gorgeous, beautifully veined and fully engorged with a tip that wept for attention. It bobbed against his stomach with each move and Mycroft made a choked sound, aching to touch.

Dark eyes bore into his. “Put your hands on me, Myc. I want your beautiful hands on my cock.”

Mycroft hurried to oblige.

“Make it harder,” the husky voice commanded and he tightened his grip.

“Fuck yeah, that’s it.” Lestrade groaned again and started riding him in earnest. He reached behind to steady himself on Mycroft’s thighs, and Mycroft pulled his legs up a little for support.

“Christ, Greg, you’re so fucking tight,” he choked out and drew a sharp breath when Lestrade’s hands curled around his legs in an iron grip that would make him bruise for sure, and what a turn-on that was. He tightened his grip on Lestrade’s length some more and was rewarded with a hoarse cry.

“Yeah, that’s it, _aaaaah yeah_ , do me hard.” He pushed himself up and into Mycroft’s fist. “I’ve wanted your hands on my cock since the first time I’ve watched you play your bloody cello.”

And there went his self-control. Without letting go of Lestrade’s prick, he thrust up into the tight opening, his shout mixing with Lestrade’s, and the air of his pristine bedroom filled with their groans and gasps and the unmistakable scent of sex mixed with sweat, rich and musky. His hips jerked up and Lestrade met him on each downward slide, and neither could have said just who was fucking whom. Mycroft might have been the penetrative and Lestrade the receiving partner, but Lestrade took his pleasure exactly how he wanted it, dominated him with each rocking of his hips and each downward thrust, and Mycroft thoroughly enjoyed being used like that.

Lestrade let go of Mycroft’s thighs and brought one of his hands around to cup his own balls, squeezing and pulling until his body stiffened and he exploded all over Mycroft’s hand, shooting creamy jets like a geyser. It was the hottest thing Mycroft had seen in a long time and as the tight channel clenched and unclenched around him, he cramped his hands around Lestrade’s thighs, most likely leaving some bruises of his own, and thrust up into the tight heat until he felt his balls tighten and pull up, and he came with a broken sound, emptying himself inside Lestrade, twitching in the aftershock. Lestrade had half risen, hovering above him, offering a better momentum for his upward thrusts, but had sunk down again during his orgasm and was now watching him, eyes wide and dark.

“You came,” he stated the obvious and Mycroft chuckled weakly.

“I certainly did. As did you.” He reached between them to hold the condom in place. Lestrade understood at once and moved out of the way. Mycroft removed the latex sheath, tied a neat little knot and dropped it on the floor, hoping he would remember where it had landed when it was time to leave the bed. Lestrade dropped down and he caught him in his arms. They touched their foreheads together and Lestrade said in a voice that was raw with emotion, “Mine.”

“Yours,” Mycroft confirmed, his own voice not quite steady, and angled his head to get better access to Lestrade’s mouth. Their lips touched and something inside him broke free and clicked into place. When Lestrade lifted his head and opened his eyes, his dark irises glowed with an intense amber undertone. He smiled down into Mycroft’s face. Mycroft knew his eyes had started to glow electric blue, knew it without having to check, and both understood without words what had happened and what they had just become.

Bonded.

******

Somewhere across London, a retired army doctor stared at the blinking cursor of his laptop screen, wondering how to begin his blog. There was nothing worth writing. Nothing ever happened to him.

******

This time there was nothing awkward about waking up in Lestrade’s arms. Just like last time, Lestrade had thrown an arm around Mycroft’s waist and one of his legs had snaked between Mycroft’s, and just like last time, Mycroft minded neither the close proximity of another body nor the protective pose his Bonded had assumed. He let himself be held, enjoying the warmth of Lestrade’s solid body pressed against him, grateful this summer wasn’t as stifling hot as the last one had been. Cuddling like that would have been most uncomfortable the year before. He grinned into the sunbeams that had begun to filter in through the blinds. Cuddling. Who would have thought he’d ever think the word without shuddering, let alone allow himself to be cuddled. Be… loved.

Behind him, Lestrade stirred awake, rasped his chin against Mycroft’s shoulders and kissed the back of his neck.

“Morning, love,” he said sleepily and laced their fingers together. “Sleep well?”

“Mhm.” He turned his head to look at Lestrade who had hooked his chin over Mycroft’s shoulder. “I think I’m a bit sore.”

“Me too.” It sounded decidedly cheerful. “And we have a whole day before us.” He rubbed himself against Mycroft’s arse and Mycroft’s body responded immediately.

“Greg, you’re a sex fiend,” he said mock-sternly.

“You have no idea.” The grip around his waist tightened and the rubbing became a bit more demanding. “I intend to walk into the office tomorrow like a ninety-year-old.” He stilled. “Unless you have things you need to take care of? Spies don’t sleep and stuff?”

Mycroft frowned as his brain slowly switched back on. He hadn’t given his schedule one thought – lost in lust and blissful ignorance. Lestrade must have felt his body tense for he immediately backed off.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, you didn’t.” He patted his arm absent-mindedly. “But I must check my messages and get in touch with Anthea.”

“Are you saying I made you lose your head?” Lestrade pumped a fist into the air. “Yesss!”

It sounded triumphant and Mycroft didn’t blame him. Still, he turned around and gave him a look with raised eyebrows. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” he said with as much arrogance as he could muster. “I intend to clear my schedule of all that doesn’t require my immediate attention, and Lord have pity on your soul.”

Lestrade crossed his hands behind his head and grinned. “Can’t wait. Make me beg for mercy.”

“Oh I will, Greg. Make no mistake about that.” Despite his mocking tone, he felt his pulse quicken when Lestrade’s eyes bore into his. “First things first.”

“Right. And I’ll do something about my morning breath. I remember you saying you found it unerotic. I’ll take a quick shower too, yeah?”

“No, just teeth.” Mycroft was already half out of bed but stopped when he heard Lestrade laugh. “What?”

“Brush my teeth but leave the crust?”

“Greg, please. No need to get graphic.”

Instead of a reply, Lestrade pulled the sheet back and looked down on his stomach. Mycroft cleared his throat and heroically tried to suppress the smug grin that threatened to spread on his face. Tried and failed. Miserably. Lestrade looked a mess and it spoke volumes about how worn he must have felt to have fallen asleep like that. He followed the gaze that travelled along his own body and sighed. He wasn’t in a much better state.

“I agree. Shower.”

“How about we shower together?” Lestrade suggested, a hopeful tone in his voice. “Your shower is big enough for the both of us.”

Mycroft pretended thinking about it and ducked away laughing when one of the small pillows was thrown his way. He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Alright alright, you win. Just let me take care of a few things first.”

“Fine. As long as you don’t forget about me.”

“That is highly unlikely. My thighs burn like fire.”

Lestrade snorted. “Skin like a girl. Just like Sherlock. He bruises like a peach, too.”

“I should hope you don’t speak from experience.” It sounded a bit stiff and Lestrade made another unelegant sound.

“Please. Don’t go there. Sherlock’s okay, he really is, but no. Just. No. It’s just that I’ve seen him, well…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Mycroft knew exactly what he was referring to.

“Let’s hope these times are over.”

“They are. I am sure of it,” Lestrade said in a firm voice. “Now off you go and delegate. I’m beginning to itch.” He glanced at Mycroft from underneath dark lashes. “Not only skin-wise.”

Mycroft reached for the robe that was neatly hung up on the door and slipped it on.

“Hold that thought. I’ll be back.”

******

On Monday morning Lestrade took a detour to pay the Dog Unit a visit. Ever since he had held the dying police dog in his arms he felt somewhat responsible for Rory, her friend she had told him about with her dying breath. Rory had grown used to seeing him and usually greeted him with all signs of canine affection short of humping his legs, as did the other dogs that happened to be present whenever he showed up, in the hope that something out of Lestrade’s mystery bags might be intended for them.

Today, however, he was greeted by angry barking and snarling the moment he stepped through the main door. It grew louder and more furious the closer he got to where the meeting rooms were located. Judging from the small crowd that had gathered, it had to be quite the spectacle.

“What’s going on?” he asked one of the uniformed policemen whose face showed a mixture of curiosity and fear.

“Dogs going apeshit over two suspects, sir.”

“What?”

“WCU hauled two wildlife offenders in and suddenly all hell broke loose.” He craned his neck to get a better view. “The boys and girls can’t hold their dogs in check anymore. The vet’s been called.”

“The vet? What for?”

The young man shrugged. “Dunno. Shoot the dogs, maybe? I mean, they’re like rabid. I’m surprised the blokes aren’t dead yet.”

“You cannot be serious.” When the young man nodded, he started elbowing his way through the group of people blocking the door. “Excuse me.”

The scene before him looked like something out of one of these TV shows where everything was larger than life, but no show could have captured that sight and got away with its credibility still intact. A fully grown Rottweiler and an equally impressive German Shepherd were standing on the bodies of two men lying on their backs in the middle of the small conference room, hind feet on thighs and groin area, paws on chests, snarling and slathering as if possessed, and three more dogs were furiously barking and blocking their handlers with their bodies. Only two of them were wearing muzzles as was the rule and Lestrade hoped there was a damn good reason for that.

“ _Silence!_ ” he thundered, and with a few long strides came to stand next to the men lying on the floor. He pointed at the frenzied dogs that had stopped barking but stayed where they were, bodies tense and flews pulled back. “Back off!” His tone didn’t invite discussions, and he snapped his fingers at Rory. “You. Come here.”

The large Shepherd came to him with flattened ears, head hung low. Lestrade went to his knees and grabbed the dog by the muzzle. “Mind telling me what’s going on here?”

 _::He killed my sister.::_ It was a low growl and Lestrade looked up and at the Rottweiler that, too, had assumed an overall submissive posture but refused to lower its head.

“I wasn’t talking to you. Lie down,” he commanded. His voice was like the crack of a whip and the Rottweiler whimpered and obeyed. “That goes for all of you. Down.”

He returned his attention to Rory. “Well?”

_::They’re the ones that shot Suzie and helped kill our furred and feathered brothers and sisters.::_

Rory’s Mindspeech was slow but precise, him being the First Guardian in this part of London. Lestrade’s head snapped around and he looked at the two men who scrambled to their feet with hesitant, shaky movements.

“That’s the Weresnatchers?”

Rory growled in response, body growing tense once more, and Lestrade’s hand shot out to clamp down on his muzzle. “Quiet.”

He stood up and turned to face the two men who had retreated into a corner of the room. They watched him with hostile expressions.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Seems you’re quick to make friends amongst our four-legged colleagues.”

The taller of the two spat at Lestrade, missed his face and his snot landed on Lestrade’s shoulder instead. Lestrade didn’t flinch, reached for a tissue and wiped his jacket clean.

“Well, if you’re that precise in everything you do, it’s nothing short of a miracle you’re still alive,” he stated drily.

“You filthy Werefucker!” The man spat again but this time, Lestrade moved out of the way just in time.

“Watch your tongue,” he warned.

“Or else what? You’re gonna tell Daddy Owl about it? That’s right, we know who you are.” He sneered. “You’re the Owl’s latest plaything.” He turned to look at his partner. “Ain’t that right.”

“Aye, sure is,” the shorter man confirmed in a thick Scottish accent and raised his voice for all the policemen and –women to hear. “Look at your fine officer. Takes it up the arse from a bloke who turns into a fucking owl at night.”

Lestrade took a step back from the sheer hatred in the man’s voice. Although still at the beginning of his training, he could tell both men were Shifters so it was no wonder they had recognised him for what he was. News travelled with lightning speed within the metamorph community as Mindspeech was a lot quicker than even the Internet.

He instantly decided not to waste any more time and energy on these two; it was up to the WCU to deal with them, and ultimately they would land before the community's Council anyway.

He jerked his chin towards the nearest dog handler. “Get the dogs’ muzzles on before the vet does anything stupid.” He turned his back on the suspects and watched as two young men and a middle-aged woman hastily reached for the leather muzzles attached to their belts. The dogs held still as the leather straps were put into place and secured, but their eyes darted back and forth between their handlers and Lestrade.

“You know, we’ll get that bird of yours, and then we’re gonna send you his talons.”

Lestrade froze. “Say that again,” he demanded over his shoulder in a voice that was deceptively calm.

“You heard me, Werefucker. His fucking talons. Maybe even a feather or two.” They snickered and slapped their palms together in a high-five.

Lestrade snapped his fingers at Rory and the Rottweiler who were by his side in an instant. “Watch.” As each dog took position before one man, growling low in their throats, Lestrade looked them up and down. “A word of advice, gentlemen. Choose your friends wisely. And your enemies.”

He scratched Rory’s head. _::You know what to do. I count on you.::_

_::Understood.::_

With a brisk nod to the dog handlers who stared at him in disbelief, he strolled outside, for all the world giving the appearance of a man who had just ended a routine team meeting, ignoring the whispering that started the second he left the room, ignoring the open-mouthed gape of the uniformed policeman he had spoken to upon arrival. With a back that was ramrod straight he went outside, walked to his car and got behind the wheel. Only when he closed the door and the car’s familiar interior surrounded him with silence, only then did he cover his face with his hands and groaned.

If that had been a taste of things to come, it might not be the worst of investments to take up yoga.

He started the car and drove to the Met’s headquarters, hoping for a quiet day of team meetings and paper work.


	12. Chapter 12

Three days of peace, quiet and paperwork, and Lestrade was fighting impulses of banging his head against a wall and of starting an office brawl just to get something in motion.  The suicide case wasn’t moving forward.  The Thames murder team was being met by walls of icy silence whenever they followed a lead that seemed promising.  The murder of a Deli shop assistant was closed less than two hours after it had been reported, the victim’s brother turning himself in, crying bitter tears over losing his temper this one last, fatal time.  Sherlock Holmes was flatmate hunting.  Mycroft Holmes was… wherever.

A knock on his office door announced a visitor and he looked up from his computer screen.  He recognised Peter MacNamara, Suzie’s former handler, and closed the file he had been studying, trying to make sense out of the fact that a Shifter had decided to hunt down his own.

“Constable,” he greeted the young officer. “Come in. What can I do for you?”

MacNamara stepped inside. “Good morning, sir. Do you have a minute?”

“Please, sit.”

“Thank you.” He hastily removed his cap and sat down.

“What’s the matter?” Lestrade watched as the other man crossed and uncrossed his legs. “Forgive me for saying so, but you appear to be a little on the fidgety side. What happened?”

“It’s Rory and Tibs, sir.”

“Who’s Tibs?”

“The Rottweiler. Suzie’s brother.”

“You named a Rottweiler Tibs?”

“It’s Tiberius,” MacNamara said with a small grin.

“And what have Rory and Tibs done now?”

“Nothing. They’ve been suspended from active duty for behavioural reasons, and we’re waiting for a specialist from the Thames Valley Police to make an assessment. But Rory’s handler said your name came up.”

“Constable, you are aware that my responsibilities do not extend to the Dog Support Unit, yes?”

“I know. But it’s to do with what happened on Monday.”

“Please tell me there’s not been more gossip of me being the new dog whisperer in town.”

MacNamara shook his head. “There’s still talk about that but it’s not like there are framed photos of you up on the walls.” 

“Good. You had me a little nervous there. So. Why did my name come up?”

“Rory and Tibs may get sacked. Not fit for police work any longer. Timmins has already been given a new dog to train and Hawkes has asked to be transferred to Bristol.”

“Bristol? What would she want there?”

“She’s got relatives there and from what I’ve gathered, they’re breeding pugs.”

“Pugs.”

“It hit her pretty hard, you know, Tibs getting so out of control and her not being able to stop him.”

“So the dogs are waiting to be assessed, and then what?”

“We’re hoping to find new homes for them, depending on what the specialist says.”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. “New homes?” His heart sank a little. “And that’s when my name came up?”

“That’s when your name came up,” MacNamara confirmed.

“Constable, I can’t give a former police dog a new home. I don’t have the time. You know how it is.”

“I know and it wouldn’t have crossed my mind to bother you, but Rory’s a very special dog, you see.”

“He certainly is, but he’s also a very big dog. And too smart to be left alone all day.”

“Sir,” MacNamara took a deep breath. “Please. Will you at last give it some thought? I would take him in myself but I’ve been training a young Belgian Shepherd male for a while now, and I don’t think this would work.”

“But the idea of a trained police dog all by itself – why do I even bother,” he interrupted himself, recognising the constable’s blank stare. “For a dog person there’s always a way, am I right?” He tapped his lips with his index finger. “Alright, I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll swing by this afternoon.” He smiled when MacNamara’s face lit up. “I’m not promising anything. There are a few things I need to check first so don’t you go spread the word that the dog whisperer is taking the troublemaker in. Are we clear?” He adopted his best senior officer voice and the young policeman saluted briskly in return.

“Crystal clear, sir.”

“Off you go. Not a word. Or I’ll have the Super assign one of Hawkes’s pugs to you.”

“But pugs aren’t –”

“A pug,” Lestrade repeated, grinning. “A cream-coloured, wheezing pug.”

“Not a word.”

“Good lad.”

He followed MacNamara outside and turned right to get himself a cup of coffee.  Somebody had placed a box with assorted doughnuts and pastries on the small round table, thus making the sweets public property and he helped himself to a doughnut covered with a thick layer of powdered sugar.

 

"Hard at work, eh? And here I thought the doughnut eating coppers were invented by American TV to give us all a bad name.”

Lestrade inhaled a noseful of sugar and started coughing violently. “Who let him in?” he finally managed.

Mackles spread his arms wide. “Is that how the Met greets one of Thames Valley’s finest?”

“Finest my arse. The day we need your help is the day my hair turns back to dark.”

“Well, get the dye out, love. Uncle Jerry is here to help you boys. And girls,” he added with a disarming smile in Donovan’s direction.  She rolled her eyes but laughed with him.

“Oh yeah? And what might that be?”

“I hear there’s been trouble with the Dog Unit?”

“Dog Unit’s not here, mate.”

“How come I’ve heard yapping since the moment I stepped through the front door?”

“Natural reaction to strays in our territory.”

“Funny. I see a lot of bitches rolling over at the sound of my voice.”

Donovan cleared her throat. “Boys, please. I’m torn between the urge to buy something pink and fluffy and filing a harassment complaint.”

“Sally, dear.” Mackles cocked his head. “You know we’re only playing. All bark, no bite. I would never disrespect you or any other fine policewoman.”

“That’s right. He only disrespects me,” Lestrade said in a stern voice but his smile wrinkles deepened, ruining the effect.

“That is not true!” Mackles’ eyes went huge and round with wounded innocence. “I stand in awe before you. The Met’s silver fox.”

Lestrade snorted. “Into my office, ginger.” With a flourishing gesture he added, “If your time permits, that is.”

“For you, love, I will make time.”

Donovan made a choked noise. “That. Is disgusting. Even for you.”

“I take this as a compliment. You always lash out when you’re moved.” Mackles winked at her and followed Lestrade into his office.  Lestrade closed the door, pulled the blinds and leaned against his desk, placing his coffee mug behind him.

“The Dog Unit? Are you telling me you’re the specialist they’re waiting for? I thought you’re with Oxford Homicide?”

“I am. But I’ve obtained a special license to help Helen with her problem dogs.”

“Didn’t you say she was teacher?”

“She is. But she’s also a dog psychologist.”

“A dog psychologist? I didn’t even know something like that exists.”

“Ah but it does. She’s really good, you know, and not only because she can, ah, connect. She’s helped out before.” Mackles beamed with pride.

“So why are you here and not her?”

“Because she’s on a field trip with her kids, and she didn’t want to disappoint them.” Mackles flung himself into a visitors’ chair, stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles.  His eyes travelled shamelessly along Lestrade’s body. “You, my man, look spectacular. You’ve been getting some regularly, yeah?”

Lestrade made a non-committal sound and Mackles slapped his thigh.

“I knew it. That little sergeant of yours giving you – wait.” He narrowed his eyes. “No way. No. Fucking. Way.” He let out a whooping sound and Lestrade huffed, half amused, half embarrassed.

“Tone it down a little, will you. I really don’t need any more whispering about me and my funny new ways.”

“Whispering? Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Where do I even begin?” Lestrade walked around the desk and sat down in his chair. “Like I’m the new dog whisperer.”

“Heard that one already. What else?”

“Sherlock. It’s not like I’ve only just introduced him but Sally all but freaks whenever he shows up. He must have told her a thing or two.” He spread his hands. “But he’s good, really, really good, you know. He sees things we don’t, and it’s amazing.”

“Mhm.” Mackles inspected his shoes. “Do people know you’re with a bloke?”

“I don’t know.” A pause. “Well, during that incident with the suspects over at the Dog Unit I’ve been called a Werefucker who’s taking it up the arse by a bloke who turns into an owl at night.”

Mackles drew a sharp breath. “They didn’t.”

“I don’t care, to be honest.” Lestrade shrugged. “I’ve heard all kinds of things in situations like that.”

“You’re not embarrassed or anything?”

“Why would I be?”

“Your reputation. Your… masculine pride.” The quotations marks were almost audible.

“My pride’s pretty much intact, thank you. And as for my reputation, well, it’s not like I’m prancing about in pink nylons or anything.”

“You’re not?”

“Fuck you,” Lestrade said heartily, and Mackles laughed.

“So, you’ve Bonded, huh.”

“I guess so.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“How do you like it?”

“How do I like what?”

“Gregs,” Mackles said in the patient voice of a grown-up talking to an especially slow-witted child, “how do you like taking it up the arse?”

“Jerry, damn!” Lestrade looked at his office door to make sure he had really closed it. “This is not the place!”

“Let’s go and have lunch then. I have about an hour until my appointment at the Dog Unit. Time enough for a sandwich and a chat, eh?”

“I guess so.” He checked the time and laughed when he saw Mackles’ expression. “I know that look. You’ll not rest before you’ve grilled me to your heart’s content.”

“You know me.”

“Welsh terrier.”

“That’s me.”

Lestrade shook his head, grinning.  Not a Shifter but a terrier through and through.  Once Jeremy Mackles had his mind set on something, gossip or facts, he wouldn’t let go.  And he wouldn’t let go of this one, that much was certain.  Just as it was certain he would not breathe a word to anyone.  Stubborn as a terrier and just as loyal.

“Let’s go then,” he got up to walk to the door and held it open. “After you, Thames Valley’s finest.”

“You are too kind.”

“I know, and I wonder why the hell that is.”

“It’s the sexy Welsh accent.”

“Yeah, it does funny things to my brain.” He walked past Donovan’s desk but she was already halfway down the hall towards the incident rooms.  “I’m grabbing a bite with Mackles. Back in an hour or so,” he called after her.  She held up her hand to indicate she had heard him and vanished around a corner.

“She’s a good one,” Mackles said appreciatively. “A bit prickly, but a good officer.”

“She is.”

 

They picked their lunches from a nearby Deli and headed for St James’s Park where they sat down on a wooden bench.

“We’re done with the niceties. Thanks for updating me on the suicides and the crazy dogs. Now stop stalling. How do you like it?”

Lestrade didn’t reply right away.  Instead, he made a show of unwrapping his sandwich, took a bite and chewed, both on the bread and on his next words.

“It’s bloody fantastic,” he finally said.  No point in playing coy around Mackles.  If there was anyone he would consider a confidant, it would have to be the Welshman.  Now there was Mycroft, of course, but while he trusted his Bonded with his life, and his heart, it was different from the easy camaraderie he shared with his old friend.  Who now regarded him with a half amused, half exasperated look.

“That’s all? Bloody fantastic?”

“What else do you want to hear?”

“Are you okay with it? Did it hurt in the beginning? What does it do to your… perception of things? Do you enjoy touching a bloke, or does it feel weird?”

“Damn, Jerry, want to come join us next time so you can see for yourself?”

“Can I?”

Lestrade winced and Mackles laughed. “Just kidding, Gregs.” He pushed a slice of tomato out of the way and speared an olive. “So, what’s he like then, the bloke behind the owl?” The olive stone flew a neat distance. “The bloke who popped your cherry?” The question was chewed around a giant lettuce leaf.

“Ah. Jealous, are we?” Lestrade said with raised eyebrows.  Mackles didn’t grace him with a reply, munching on the next green monstrosity. 

He leaned back against the solid wooden backrest. “What can I say? He’s just… gorgeous, you know. Not handsome as in film star beautiful, but, yeah, gorgeous. He’s tall, and he’s got freckles, and a long nose, more like a beak, really, and freakishly long lashes, and a voice that’s like velvet and goes straight to my cock, and God, he sure knows how to kiss. And his hands, Christ, his hands – ”  To his right, Mackles made a choked sound and he looked up, yanked out of his reverie.  “What?”

“You sound like a fucking girl. Except for the bit with the cock.”

Lestrade grinned, not embarrassed at all. “You asked.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t expecting… this. Speaking of cocks, though.”

“No complaints, mate.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yeah, well, there were certain, uhm, initial difficulties but we’re all good now. It’s like you said, extra bits here, some others missing there. It’s fun, really.”

“Fun?”

“Well, I don’t want to sound like a girl, you know.”

“Swoon away, mate.”

Lestrade finished his sandwich and fished in his pockets for the bag of dried fruit.  He had heard the rustle in the bushes behind them and now held out his hand to the side.  Sure enough, three squirrels and a woodpecker appeared from wherever they’d been hiding. 

“There you go. I was getting worried you wouldn’t show up.”

“You still do that?” There was barely suppressed laughter in Mackles’ voice. “You and your small furry creatures.”

“Can’t help myself.” He put the plastic bag away and waved his empty hands at the animals that refused to take the hint. “Off you go, lads, I’m having a talk here. Oh, don’t give me those looks. It’s not like you’re starving.”  He watched as the squirrels scurried off in search of the next unsuspecting person about to unwrap his or her lunch, and the woodpecker disappeared between the branches of the tree.

“It’s like nothing else I’ve ever done,” he picked up where he had left off. “Everything about him is just so beautiful. I love how his skin feels, you know, so different from a woman’s. His smell, too. And his cock, man, I can’t get enough of his cock. It’s fucking gorgeous.” He laughed, a little self-conscious. “Oh God, who’d have ever thought I’d get all crazy about another bloke’s cock. But it’s just so, ah…” Finding the right words was more difficult than he thought but there was no mocking in Mackles’ eyes and so he continued, encouraged. “At first I was afraid it would put me off, you know, the smell and the taste, but it’s just so insanely hot. And I don’t choke half as much as I thought I would.”

“You’re going down on him?”

“Hell yeah I do.”

“Lucky him.”

They looked at each other and for the merest fraction of a second, ‘what if’ popped up between them.  It had never happened, would never happen and would remain unspoken, and yet, what if?  Mackles looked away first and Lestrade continued after a tiny pause, the urge to share overwhelming him and silencing whatever qualms he might otherwise have about opening up like that.

“I had no idea it would be like that. With him, I don’t need to hold back, you know. With a woman, there’s always this… this underlying fear you might actually hurt her. Women are not made of glass, hell, some are tougher than I am, but still, I’m physically stronger, I know that, they know that, and I’ve seen so many horrible things done to women that sometimes I’m just so afraid that I’ve grabbed too hard, or pushed too hard…”

“I know what you mean. It is very different. But the trust with which she gives herself to me, it’s mind-blowing. She knows I would never, ever hurt her, and that just humbles me, you know.” He huffed. “Listen to me, going all soft.”

“You and me both, Jerry. But with him, it’s like, he can take it, you know? That’s just so fucking hot. And his arse is the tightest, hottest –”

“Whoa, hold it right there.” Mackles raised both his hands and Lestrade stopped in mid-sentence.

“What? That too much for your delicate ears?”

“No, hell no, but – are you saying he bottoms for you?”

“He what?”

“Bottoms. He lets you fuck him?”

“Why, yeah of course he does,” Lestrade said, confused. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because he’s, well, he’s The Owl?”

“And?”

“You know, as in, top of the food chain?”

“So what? He’s just a bloke. Besides, I’m his chosen partner. You think he’d have picked me of all people if he wanted somebody submissive?”

“I guess not.” He gave Lestrade a searching look, then with a quick movement reached for Lestrade’s collar and yanked it away from his neck. “Is that a love bite?”

“Will you keep your hands to yourself?” Lestrade slapped him away. “How did you even know it was there?”

“When you crane your neck to the side like you did when you fed the squirrels, it’s visible above the collar. Plus, you touched your neck when you raved on about his kisses. I am a trained observer, you know,” he added, smirk deepening. “Easy, Gregs. You’re safe.” He stuffed his empty salad dish and the balled up sandwich wrappings into the plastic bag and held his hand out for Lestrade’s. “Will I ever meet him? I’d really like to see the man who’s made you crave cock.” He neatly dumped their waste into the bin next to the bench.

“Wish fucking granted,” Lestrade said, grinning.

Mackles jerked his head up. “What?”

“There he is.” Lestrade indicated towards a tall silhouette sauntering in their direction. “Careful what you wish for.”

With a groan, Mackles slumped against the bench’s wooden backrest. “And how am I to face him with your voice going on about his gorgeous cock still in my head?”

“That, my love, is your problem. You have about eight seconds, starting now.”

Lestrade crossed his legs and watched Mycroft come closer, wearing one of his lighter suits, the colour of which Lestrade would never be able to name correctly and he wondered how anyone would choose something that looked like mud and yet manage to look so… dapper.  The tailored suit accentuated his lean build while at the same time giving nothing away, but Lestrade remembered only too well the feeling of slim hips rolling against his, and how willingly those long legs had opened for him.  He glanced sideways to see if Mackles gave any signs of picking up his vivid memories but his friend stared straight ahead, looking almost terrified, very unlike the cheeky bastard he had been only minutes before.

“Hello Mycroft,” he said with a smile.  Mycroft didn’t return the smile, but his features softened and he Sent a mental caress through their Bond before he focussed his sharp eyes on Mackles.

“Chief Inspector Jeremy Mackles, I presume.”

Mackles all but jumped up and held out his hand. “How do you do.”

“How do you do.”

Lestrade moved so Mycroft could sit down between them.  Although he itched to touch, he kept his hands to himself, fairly certain that public displays of affection would not be welcome.  Not that he was much of a public hugger or kisser but he found it amazingly difficult to keep a neutral façade.

_::Is that a love bite I’m seeing, Greg?::_

_::I believe it is, Mycroft.::_

_::I wonder who would let himself be carried away like that.::_

_::You tell me.::_

Mycroft made a non-descript sound but one side of his mouth twitched.  _::I have a theory or two I should like to discuss.::_

With a polite smile he turned to the silent man sitting to his right. “Chief Inspector, what brings you to London? Business or pleasure?”

“I’m here to inspect two of the Met’s dogs and make an assessment with regards to their future use or non-use within the Dog Unit. Sir.”

“Oh?”

Lestrade watched with interest as Mackles squirmed when sharp blue-and-grey lasers zeroed in on him.  Being subject to the Holmes deduction stare never was fun, even less so when it happened for the first time.  Jeremy Mackles was not easily intimidated but right there and then he looked like the proverbial rabbit before the proverbial snake, all cheekiness and jokes forgotten while under scrutiny.

“I see. Of course.” The faintest of smiles ghosted across Mycroft’s face. “And the reason the Metropolitan Police need help from a Thames Valley colleague would be?”

“Both dogs are Guardians. The Met’s Guardian supervisor has retired last year and the current super hasn’t reached the rank or the degree necessary to properly deal with Guardians as strong as these two. My wife has specialised in working with problematic police dogs but while she holds the necessary degree, she doesn’t have the official rank whereas I hold the rank but not the knowledge.”

“So how exactly is this going to work?” Lestrade shifted so he faced Mackles.

“Easy. We’ll Share. The dogs will recognise my rank and will respond to her assessment.”

“Oh! So that’s what you meant when you said Sharing might come in handy.” The words were directed at Mycroft who tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Can I come with you? I’d like to see that. Besides, I promised to step by.”

“There’s not an awful lot to see. I won’t speak in tongues or do funny things with my magic wand.”

 _::Ah. The magic wand. I was waiting for it to make an appearance,::_ Mycroft said drily, and Lestrade snorted.  

Mackles shot him a sharp look, then risked a sideways glance at Mycroft whose face gave nothing away.

“Funny,” he said. “You’re _thinking_ at each other. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that’s rude?”

An auburn eyebrow arched up but this time, the haughty stare failed to impress Mackles whose hazel eyes narrowed in concentration.  Much as he tried to eavesdrop, Lestrade couldn’t make anything out but Mycroft gave Mackles an incredulous look and when Mackles nodded with determination, as if making a point, Mycroft flung his head back and started laughing.  Loudly.  Heartily. 

Lestrade blinked. “What was that?”

Mycroft and Mackles shared a grin and Mackles shook his head. “Not now, love. Time to visit the doggies.”  He checked his watch and rose.  “Go back and fetch your car or would a cab be easier?”

“My driver is standing by,” Mycroft suggested. “There’s still some time before my next meeting and a little detour will not hurt.”

“Thank you, that is much appreciated.”

“Pleasure.” He reached for his mobile phone and speed-dialled a number. “Sebastian? Would you please meet me by the Guard’s Chapel? I will be accompanied by Chief Inspector Mackles and Inspector Lestrade. – Yes, thank you.” He ended the call. “Shall we?”

As they turned to head for the Chapel, Mycroft’s hand brushed Lestrade’s and the brief touch sent a pleasurable tingle through his body.  He grinned inwardly.  It was almost like being a teenager again, only without the nagging insecurities. 

The sleek black limousine was already waiting right before the Chapel entrance.  Lestrade wasn’t sure if it was supposed to park there but Mycroft’s cars had a tendency to show up out of nowhere and stop wherever they pleased, just like Sherlock was able to hail a cab whenever he needed one.  Although the cars had become less of a mystery over the previous months, there was still something spooky about them.

“Nice,” Mackles said approvingly as he slipped inside. “Where did you say you worked again?”

“I am in Her Majesty’s service, not unlike yourself, Chief Inspector.”

“Jeremy, please.”

Mycroft inclined his head. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mr Holmes.”

“Jeremy.”

Lestrade noticed he was gaping and quickly closed his mouth, hoping his momentary lapse of control over his facial features would go unnoticed.  What had he missed?  Seen but not observed?  How had Jeremy and Mr Holmes happened?  Mackles subordinating without discussion, outside his professional capacity?  And quite cheerfully so?  He shook his head and missed the question that was directed at him.

“Gregs? You asleep with your eyes open?” Mackles snapped his fingers at him. “Care to join us? And the address? Please?”

“Uh, Lewisham. That’s where Rory and Tibs are.” He opened the passenger’s door, got in and gave the driver the full address. “You know how to get there?”

“I do, sir,” came the brisk response and the car pulled out into traffic.

 

Mycroft was quickly brought up to speed about what had happened at the Dog Support Unit and listened with what seemed genuine interest as Mackles chatted on about dog psychology and Helen’s side job.  If he realised he was being masterfully interrogated, he didn’t seem to care.  He had quite clearly overcome his initial shock and now treated Mycroft as he treated almost everyone: with carefree friendliness spiced with crisp professionalism minus the flirtatious innuendos.  Those were reserved for his closest friends, and Mr Holmes hadn’t quite made it into those ranks.  Yet.  Judging from Mycroft’s relaxed manner and his amused tone, he was warming up to Mackles with a speed that Lestrade found vaguely alarming.

They arrived quicker than Lestrade had anticipated and he briefly wondered whether traffic lights had been manipulated in their favour.

“Thanks for the ride, Mycroft,” he said as he climbed out of the car. “Will I see you tonight?”

“I should hope so, but I was wondering whether I might be permitted to accompany you inside.”

“Do you have time for that?”

“My position doesn’t offer many privileges but delegating the task of opening a routine staff meeting to one of my team members is one of them.” _::I have a feeling your friend Rory will make an appearance in the very near future. Might as well meet him now.::_

“Mycroft, I wasn’t – ” Lestrade began but stopped himself when he saw the laughter in Mycroft’s eyes. _::Would you mind?::_

 _::Would I ever come between you and an animal in need of protection? I think not.::_ An eyebrow quirked up. _::Just don’t expect me to pick up behind him.::_

He turned to his driver. “Sebastian, may I ask you to wait for a few minutes?”

“Certainly, Mr Holmes.”

“Thank you.”

He gestured for Lestrade to lead the way.  Mackles already stood by the main entrance, impatiently tapping his foot.  Inside they registered with the front desk.  The young policewoman blanched when Mycroft flashed his identification and dialled a number.

“Sergeant, your visitors are here.”  She cradled the receiver between ear and shoulder and seemed to hastily type a message. “Of course. Thank you.”  With a smile she gestured towards a group of visitors’ chairs. “Sergeant Clawson will be with you shortly.”

They had barely taken their seats when a lanky man in his mid-thirties turned around the corner and greeted them with a crisp nod of his head.

“Good afternoon. I’m Sergeant Clawson. You are here for Rory and Tibs?”

“We are,” Mackles said with an equally crisp nod. “Detective Chief Inspector Jeremy Mackles of Thames Valley. I believe you have already met Detective Inspector Lestrade, and this is Mr Holmes who was kind enough to set aside a few minutes to inspect the culprits himself.”

“Mr Holmes, how do you do.” Clawson shook hands with Mycroft and greeted Lestrade with a tilt of his head. “Welcome back, Inspector. Here to check up on the boys?”

“Indeed. Where are they?”

“The kennels. Follow me.”

Clawson led them along a narrow corridor that was as non-descript as one would expect from an office buildings of a governmental nature, down a short flight of stairs to an outdoor area where the kennels were located.  

“Hello boys and girls,” he shouted and grinned when his greeting was answered by excited barking. “Rory is over there,” he pointed to the far left, “and Tibs is right here.” A jerk of his chin directed Mackles’ eyes to the very image of canine professionalism.  Tibs sat on his haunches, head cocked, ears pointing forward, not one muscle twitching.

“Hm.” Mackles crouched down and looked into the Rottweiler’s moist eyes.  Nothing happened that would have been interesting to an onlooker, and Lestrade turned to Clawson.

“May I see Rory?”

_::Over here! Over here!::_

Rory’s Mindvoice carried clearly across the distance and Lestrade and Mycroft exchanged a look.

“Certainly.” Clawson walked them to Rory’s kennel.  Like Tibs, the German Shepherd had assumed a sitting position but unlike stoic Tibs, he couldn’t keep himself in check and his tail started thumping against the floor the moment Lestrade came into view.

“Rory, look at you. Behind bars. You have no reason to be so cheerful,” Lestrade chided.  Rory’s ears twitched and his eyes shifted sideways but his tail kept thumping. “Would you open the door for me?” he asked over his shoulder and after a brief moment of hesitation, Clawson unlocked the kennel door.  Lestrade immediately went to his knees and held out his hand to Rory who greeted him with all signs of affection a dog was capable of.

_::Dear me, it’s worse than I thought. You better scrub your face as soon as you get home.::_

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft who regarded him with mild disgust.

_::Jealous, Mycroft?::_

_::About the fact that you let him kiss you in public? It does sting a little.::_

_::You can kiss me whenever you like, you know.::_

Mycroft huffed. _::And how would that look? The Met’s silver fox snogging a suit.::_

 _::Mycroft!::_ Lestrade stifled a laugh. _::You said ‘snogging’.::_

_::You have yourself to blame for that. Your influence is undermining everything I hold dear.::_

_::And isn’t that fun?::_ He started to scratch behind Rory’s ears and the large dog’s tongue lolled out, giving him a slightly idiotic expression.

“Clawson? A word, please?” Mackles’ voice from the other end of the kennel area called the sergeant away from them and Lestrade pulled Rory’s ear.

“What do we do with you, huh?”

 _::Please take me with you. Please let me watch over you.::_ Rory hung his head. _::Please, master.::_

“I’m not your master, Rory.”

_::I will be happy to serve you.::_

Lestrade sighed. “Rory, I don’t have enough time to keep you occupied. I won’t even have time to walk you regularly. And my house is too small for you to stay inside.”

 _::I could patrol your property,::_ Rory suggested hopefully.

“I only have a tiny patch of lawn. You’d get bored after less than two hours.”

 _::I could drill the lesser Guardians.::_ Rory dropped to his belly and shuffled closer to Lestrade. _::Please don’t send me away.::_

“Enough.” A stern voice from above their heads made both man and dog look up.  Mycroft looked down at them with an inscrutable expression in his eyes. “I’ve seen quite enough.”

He crouched down next to Lestrade. _::Greg, are you sure you want to do this?::_

_::I’d love to, but I have no idea what to do with him.::_

_::May I make a suggestion?::_

_::Yes?::_

Mycroft directed his gaze towards Rory. _::Sit up,::_ he commanded. _::You are a professional, and professionals do not grovel.::_

Rory obediently came to a sitting position, his look wary and his ears slightly flattened.

 _::Better,::_ Mycroft said approvingly. _::Good lad. Now listen. Am I quite correct in assuming that you have formed some sort of attachment towards my Bonded?::_

 _::I will protect him to the last breath,::_ Rory said in his slow but precise Mindspeech.

_::Will you extend some of that loyalty to me as well?::_

_::You are his Bonded, and you are my lord. Obeying you is serving him.::_

_::Fair enough. You heard him, he doesn’t have time to keep you occupied during the days. I, on the other hand, could use someone with your abilities.::_

He looked at Lestrade who had sat back on his heels, listening with growing amazement. 

“What are you doing, Mycroft?”

“I’m thinking about assigning him to one of my teams.” _::Two Shifters, one male, one female. They do remarkable work but some of their missions take them to less than pleasant areas and there have been situations… well. Someone like Rory would be a valuable asset.::_

_::Are you offering to hire him?::_

_::Something like that, yes. If you agree, that is. I do not wish to impose myself.::_

“Impose? That would be brilliant! Rory, would you like that?”

_::Like what, master?::_

“He didn’t hear us,” Mycroft said and curled his long fingers around Rory’s muzzle. “Listen to me.”  His eyes locked with Rory’s and although Lestrade didn’t Hear what was being spoken, Rory’s posture reminded Lestrade of a soldier standing to attention.  The dog’s large ears stood erect and he raised his neck, his eyes never leaving Mycroft’s face, and after a few moments he gave an excited bark. 

Mycroft smiled and rose from his crouching position. “That’s settled then,” he said in a satisfied voice. “Now if you will excuse me, Greg, I really must dash. I’m already dreadfully late.”

“Where is the second troublemaker?” Mackles walked up to them with Clawson in tow. “Well now, look at him. He could win any beauty contest.”

Lestrade held up his hand. “No need to check him, Mackles. I’m taking him in.”

“You are?” Mackles narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“Inspector, with all due respect,” Clawson cut in. “The dog has been suspended from active duty for behavioural reasons and although I have no reason to doubt you’re an outstanding –”

“Then don’t,” Lestrade interrupted him.

“But sir, there are no records of you being an experienced dog handler.”

“But I am, and I will take full responsibility,” Mycroft said in a voice that didn’t invite further discussion. “Expect the required paper work on your desk by tomorrow morning, ten o’clock.” He tilted his head in the merest of greetings. “Please excuse me. Chief Inspector. Sergeant.” A short pause. “Greg.”

He turned and with long strides headed back to where his car was waiting.

When he was out of sight, Clawson frowned. “The hell? He can’t just swan in like this and claim a fully trained police dog as if he was picking a bunny rabbit for his girl.”

“He can, and he just did.” Mackles chuckled.

“Who is he?”

Lestrade had nudged Rory back into the kennel and locked the door.  He handed the key back to Clawson with a smile. “He’s my partner, and you do not want to cross him.”

“Your partner? But I thought Sergeant –”

“That’s all you need to know, Sergeant Clawson.” He looked at Mackles. “Are you done with Tibs?”

“I am.”

“Good.” He looked at Clawson who stood rooted to the spot. “Unless you need us for anything else?”

“No, I believe I do not. Sir. Chief Inspector Mackles has kindly agreed to watch Tibs perform on the agility course but I think we have come to a tentative agreement.”

“We have,” Mackles held out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Clawson, and I will meet you and Constable Hawkes at four-fifteen, yes?”

“Four-fifteen,” Clawson confirmed.

“Excellent. Would you kindly show us the way out?”

Without another word, Clawson turned on his heels and led the way.

 

They walked in silence until they reached a corner where hailing a cab looked promising enough and it wasn’t before they settled down on a well-worn back-seat of an equally well-worn cab that Mackles started laughing.

“What?” Lestrade asked, wondering what turns the thoughts inside that Welsh head had taken.

“‘He’s my partner, and you don’t want to cross him. That’s all you need to know. Sergeant.’” Mackles slapped Lestrade’s shoulder. “That was badass.”

“No, that was stupid.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure he’d like our relationship to become public knowledge.”

“Don’t be daft. Haven’t you noticed he called you by your given name in front of the good sergeant? And it’s not like you explicitly said you’re shagging him.” He looked at the cabbie whose eyes in the rear view mirror held a look of disapproval. “What?” he said sharply. “Yeah, so some blokes shag other blokes. It’s called homosexual. Get over it, mate. We’re not gonna make out in your car.”

Lestrade slid down in his seat. Just a little, but Mackles’ bony elbow caught him in the ribs. “Badass,” he repeated. “I am so proud of you. I like him, by the way.”

“Didn’t seem like you did back in the park.”

“Well, yeah, not exactly what I expected, you know? I mean, I never really thought the Owl was a construction worker or an accountant. I always thought he was a lawyer or some high-ranking banker, a CEO or something, maybe even a politician. But this?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please, Gregs. Think back on when you first met him. What did you think of him then?”

“That he was a pompous arse and about to seriously piss me off.”

“Really?” He thought about this for a moment. “Yeah, I can see how he might give that impression. He’s oozing power. Even his pocket square is intimidating. What exactly does he do for a living?”

“I wish I could tell you but I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t. Seriously. I have no idea. Well, I have an idea but if I’m even remotely right then like hell I’m gonna tell you.”

“Mhm. He reminds me of someone but I can’t quite put my finger to it. So. You’re gonna give Rory a new home then?”

“Seems so. We’ll see how that goes.” He stared ahead for a moment. “What will happen to Tibs?”

“Oh, he’s coming back to Oxford with me. Helen says she knows exactly what to do with him…”

Lestrade half-listened to Mackles outline Helen’s plans for the Rottweiler, while the other half of his brain busied itself planning the evening.  Dinner first, fuck later?  Skip dinner altogether?  Pick something up on the way home?  Cook something?  Fuck first, order in?  He stole a glance at his watch and heaved a deep sigh.

Mackles interrupted himself and looked at him. “Am I boring you?”

“What? No!” Lestrade hastily reassured him. “It’s just that I… well –” he gave a sheepish grin and his friend rolled his eyes.

“Wait, you’re counting down the hours until you can peel him out of his suit, am I right?” He snorted. “Damn, Gregs, he is such a lucky bastard!”

The cab stopped in front of New Scotland Yard and the cabbie turned around and glared at them.  Mackles handed him a bank note. “Keep the change, mate, you've earned it. Driving a bunch of sodomites around, poor you.” He flashed him a wide grin. “But I do need the receipt. Ta.” He accepted the slip of paper with a wink. “You have a fantastic day, love.”

They climbed out of the cab and watched it pull back into traffic.

“Poor sod. He looked ready to puke all over his steering wheel when you called him love,” Lestrade said, grinning.

“He did, didn’t he?” Mackles looked rather pleased with himself. “Well, that was fun. Let’s go back inside and see what the boys and girls have been up to while Daddy was gone.”

“Wait,” Lestrade snatched Mackles’ sleeve. “What did you tell Mycroft back in the park?”

“Back in the park? I don’t – oh!” Mackles started laughing and Lestrade immediately wished he hadn’t asked.

“I told him you have a tendency to hog the blanket.”

“And that was so funny?”

“I also told him to never ever let you eat dried apricots because they make you fart.”

“You didn’t – you fucking arsehole!”

Mackles doubled over with laughter. “Your face, Gregs,” he wheezed, “fucking priceless.” He stumbled up the stairs, laughing and panting, and Lestrade followed right behind, torn between rage, embarrassment, and laughter that threatened to well up despite himself.

This would not remain unanswered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big THANK YOU to the lovely alyxpoe. You know why.


	13. Chapter 13

Lestrade stood in his kitchen, whistling along with the radio, took the last of the potatoes, peeled it and chopped it into neat little pieces.  He would never be the next celebrity chef but he had picked up a few family recipes over the years, and growing up with four cousins and a resolute aunt had taught him to be quick and thorough when it came to preparing a meal.  He looked at the ingredients lined up before him and briefly wondered whether something as simple as his Grandmother’s famous potato and carrot soup would be to Mycroft’s liking but decided it was worth trying.  It was quickly made, nourishing but not filling, delicious but not distracting, and neither of them would be incapacitated for the after dinner activities he had in mind.

He turned the radio up a bit more when one of his favourite tunes came on and reached for the first carrot.  A now familiar humming inside of him signalled the arrival of Myc but he continued working, smiling, determined to get as much done as possible before the sight of his lover would remind him it had been four days.  His smile widened into a grin.  In his mid-forties and randy as a teenager.  If that was a side effect of being Bonded, well, he wasn’t going to complain. 

He started when long fingers closed around his right wrist, stopping him in mid-movement.

“I shudder at the glee with which you apply yourself to the task of slicing these vegetables,” Mycroft murmured. “The fact that you chose carrots of that size could be amusing if not for the disturbing speed of that knife of yours.”

Lestrade leaned back against Mycroft, dropping his sharp kitchen knife without a second thought.  It landed on the counter with a clattering sound, forgotten in an instant as the combination of that velvety voice so close to his ear, lips brushing his skin with every other word and slim hips pressing against his backside made it hard to concentrate and threatened to turn his knees into jelly.

“I’m preparing dinner,” he managed and the low chuckle sent a delicious shiver along his spine.

“All I see is carrots and potatoes.” It was whispered against his neck and he reached for the kitchen counter to steady himself as one hand slipped underneath his shirt and the other teased along the waistband of his jeans. “What did you have in mind for an amuse-bouche?”

“I don’t know, I – _aaaaah_!”

Mycroft curled his hand around the ridge of Lestrade’s rapidly hardening shaft and Lestrade reached back to do some grabbing of his own.  His hands landed on naked skin and he made a half-amused, half-approving sound.

“Wasted no time, eh?”

He turned around to face Mycroft, and let his eyes travel along his long, lean frame, not missing one detail, not a single freckle on his pale skin, not the chesthair, not the slight stomach, the long, long legs… and certainly not Mycroft’s prick that seemed to enjoy the attention it got, eagerly rising to the occasion.  He placed his hands on Mycroft’s well-rounded bum cheeks and pulled him close.

“Come here, you,” he said huskily, “let me kiss you hello.”  Their lips met and all thoughts of dinner vanished from his mind the moment their tongues touched.  Mycroft all but melted against his body, all heat and desire, light years away from the stiff upper lip-façade he tended to present to the outside world.  Lestrade wrapped his arms around him and held him as tightly as he could and Mycroft moaned softly against Lestrade’s mouth, burying one hand in his hair while the other one slid into his waistband to knead his buttocks, and he started rubbing himself against the rough denim of Lestrade’s jeans.

“Not in the kitchen,” Lestrade managed, holding on to his self-control for a little while longer. “I’ve already set the table and there’s knives and stuff lying around.”

“Mhm,” Mycroft hooked his fingers into the belt loops and pulled Lestrade with him, walking backwards, not one step out of place, as if he knew Lestrade’s house by heart.  Which he probably did, given his amazing memory.  Lestrade let himself be pulled into his bedroom where he quickly and unceremoniously stripped, longing to feel skin on skin.

Had it really been less than a week since he and Mycroft had become lovers?  His first male lover ever?  Technically, this was their second encounter since the weekend that had changed it all and yet, it felt like the easiest and most natural thing.  As if he hadn’t spent the last, well, thirty years chasing girls and dating women.  All he had ever truly longed for was right here before him.  His partner.  His Bonded.  Tall, pale, haughty, immensely powerful and decidedly non-female.  He looked down and chuckled.  Very much not female.

He sank to his knees and crooked his finger, beckoning Mycroft to come closer.  Mycroft immediately obeyed and Lestrade let his hands skim along his legs until they came to rest on his hips.  Looking up into Mycroft’s face, he lightly blew against the tip of his cock that pointed straight at him.  Mycroft drew a hissing sound and reached for the back of his head.  Lestrade smiled, planted a noisy kiss on the root and laughed when Mycroft made an indignant sound.  He leaned forward, caught the base of Mycroft’s cock between his lips and gently sucked on that sensitive spot just above the balls.  He had decided to approach the fine art of giving head in the exact same manner he himself favoured and would take it from there.  So far it seemed this concept met with Mycroft’s wholehearted approval and he let himself be guided by the sounds he coaxed out of his lover, moans and murmured words of appreciation, the way his breathing became more and more ragged, the force with which his fingers held on to his hair (he would complain about that later but right now, he couldn’t care less) and the barely suppressed urgency with which his hips jerked forward. 

“Greg, please, you’re killing me.”

It came out in a choked voice, and Lestrade held him in place, not sure he could take having his mouth fucked quite like that, not yet anyway, not while he still had that gagging reflex.  But he wanted, oh God, how he wanted.  The knowledge he could do this to Mycroft Holmes was a powerful aphrodisiac.

He flattened his tongue and licked along the thick shaft with one bold upward stroke.

“Want me to stop?”

A shaky laugh was his reply, and Mycroft bend down to claim his lips.  Lestrade rose from his crouched position and nudged Mycroft towards the bed until his legs hit the edge and he had to sit down.  Lestrade shouldered his knees apart and knelt between them, signalling Mycroft to lie down.  He had always liked his female lovers in that position, open and exposed for him to play and pleasure, and he fully intended to enjoy Mycroft like that, too.  Mycroft propped himself up on his elbows to see what Lestrade was up to.

“Lie back,” Lestrade commanded. “I know you like to watch but right now? You lie back and let me have my wicked way with you.”

Mycroft huffed but did as he was told.  The shift in power apparently agreed with him and he didn’t seem to mind handing the reins over to Lestrade who started his devastating game by nibbling his way from just above the left knee to where leg and hip were joined, teasing the sensitive skin on the inner thigh with tongue and stubble until Mycroft was reduced to whimpering and incoherent begging.

“No touching,” he said warningly and swatted Mycroft’s hand away. “This is mine and you will not make it easy on yourself by cheating.” He laughed when Mycroft grabbed a fistful of his cotton sheets instead. “Good lad.” He blew across the balls and resumed his teasing along Mycroft’s right thigh. “And now,” he pushed his knees even wider apart – just how flexible was Mycroft? –, “let the games begin.”

He took Mycroft’s testes with his left hand and circled the rigid shaft with thumb and forefinger of his right.  Applying just the right amount of pressure at both ends, he stretched the delicate flesh and licked.  And licked.  Zigzagging with the tip of his tongue.  Cat-like with a flat tongue.  He sucked one testicle into his mouth, wickedly teasing the underside.  Mycroft shouted and his pelvis snapped up, pushing his prick into the tight circle of Lestrade’s fingers, spreading his legs some more. 

Lestrade put his left middle finger into his mouth, wetting it with obscene sounds, then let it slide along the perineum and tapped against the puckered opening.  As he slid his wet finger inside Mycroft’s body, he swallowed as much of his cock as he could.

“Ah _fuck_ , Greg, like that. Right there, bloody hell yeah.” Mycroft buried his fingers in Lestrade’s hair. “Suck harder. You have such a dirty fucking mouth, Lestrade.”

The profanity shot through Lestrade’s body like a lightning bolt and he wished for a third hand to clamp down on his own cock that had begun leaking in anticipation.  But this was too good to stop.  Mycroft Holmes swearing like a sailor in bed?  What a massive turn-on.  With an approving growl he sucked some more of Mycroft’s prick into his mouth, feeling his eyes water at the intrusion but determined to continue.

He felt the moment Mycroft was about to shoot, Felt it through their Bond, felt it in his jerky movements, noticed his balls tightening.  Felt his hands trying to push him away but he stayed where he was, refusing to leave.  He was too curious and too turned on to pull away, but he wrapped his fingers around Mycroft’s length, letting some of it slide from his mouth, not sure what to expect in terms of, well, impact.  Mycroft’s hips snapped up, pumping into his fist.

“ _Christ_ , this is – _fuck_ , Greg, I can’t, yeah –” His upper body tensed and arched up, like a longbow about to release the arrow and just like a longbow, his body released and he came with a hoarse, wordless cry. 

Lestrade felt the hot jets shoot against the back of his throat and it took all of his willpower not to retch.  He wasn’t put off but he hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t known what to expect, and suddenly he understood why most of his female lovers had been hesitant about swallowing.  It was neither the taste – salty, tangy, like oysters, really – nor the smell – rich and musky – of arousal, it was the sheer force of the ejaculation.  Fascinating.  He released the death grip on Mycroft’s prick and licked some more along the shaft, lapping the last drops off the tip, his eyes never leaving Mycroft’s face.  He had quickly found out Mycroft liked to watch, and Mycroft liked to be licked, and right now, he was happy to deliver both.

When it became too much for his over-sensitised skin to bear, Mycroft squirmed out of reach and pushed himself farther up the bed, and then it was him beckoning Lestrade close with a crooked finger.  Lestrade shot up from where he sat crouched, ignoring the plopping sound of protest in his knees, and landed on Mycroft, knocking the air right out of his lungs.  Mycroft oofed but immediately pulled him down for a kiss.

“You taste like come,” he stated with a grin. “Where have you been?”

“Helping myself to an appetiser, Mr Holmes. You were the one suggesting an amuse-bouche, _non_?” He palmed his own cock and Mycroft looked, transfixed, when he started thumbing the weeping tip, rubbing the clear liquid across the swollen glans. 

“Drawer,” Lestrade said in a thick voice. “Condoms and lube are in the drawer.”

Mycroft nodded silently and twisted around so he could reach the bedside table.  He yanked the drawer open and fumbled for the requested items.  Lestrade took the offered condom, ripped the package open and slowly rolled it across his prick.

“Slick me up, Mycroft. I need to feel your hands on me. You know how much I love that.”

He watched as Mycroft warmed the clear gel in his hands and hissed when long fingers wrapped around his length.  With a throaty moan he sat back on his heels and enjoyed the feeling of being worked so skilfully.

“Enough,” he finally panted, “that’s enough.”

Mycroft wiped his hands on the bedding with a naughty grin, got on his knees and turned around, spreading his legs invitingly.  Lestrade positioned himself behind him, pulled Mycroft’s firm buttocks apart and rubbed his lube-covered cock against the crack.  Mycroft groaned and pushed back.

“You like that, Myc?”

“Mmmh.”

“Are you ready for me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you don’t need some more –”

“No,” it came out from behind clenched teeth, “I’m ready. Fuck me.”

Lestrade aligned his cock and started pushing inside. “As. You. Wish.” Each word was punctuated with a thrust, careful but determined.  He looked down to where they were now connected and rubbed his thumb along the rim that sat snugly around his rigid shaft.  Mycroft gave a whining sound and he slowly pulled out until only the tip was buried, then made a few quick, shallow forward movements, merely dipping inside, cruelly teasing himself and Mycroft.

Mycroft punched the mattress.

“Will you stop that, you abominable – _aaaaah!_ ”

Lestrade rammed home with a force that had Mycroft lose balance and slither forward, landing face-down on one of the pillows.  Lestrade flinched and immediately reached for him.

“Oh God I’m sorry, I am so sorry. Are you alright?”

Mycroft pushed himself back up, balancing his weight on his elbows and forearms. 

“If you stop now,” he said, laughter and arousal mixing in his voice, “I’m going to fucking castrate you.”

“Like hell you will.” Lestrade bracketed Mycroft’s hips with his hands and pushed back inside, not quite as brutally but none too gently either.  If Mycroft wanted it rough, then that’s what he would give him.  All that teasing and licking and swearing had made him so hard he was beginning to hurt, and he started drilling into Mycroft with a powerful rhythm that had him soon covered in sweat.

At one point he noticed Mycroft’s right hand had vanished between his legs, making rapid pumping motions, and he sat back on his haunches, hauling him up so he came to straddle his thighs.  He reached around and found a prick that was half hard again.

“Damn Myc,” he said with reluctant admiration, “that’s got to be the quickest recovery outside puberty I’ve ever come across.”

“Not that you have much to compare it by,” Mycroft spread his legs some more and let his head fall back, “and besides, I’m three years younger than you are.”

“Oh yeah?” Lestrade snaked one arm across Mycroft’s chest and closed his fist around the enthusiastic cock. “Then let me teach you a thing or two.”

He tightened his grip – both across the chest and on the cock – and started pushing upwards, ignoring his knees’ protest as Mycroft started riding him.  It had to be uncomfortable for him, too, knees spread wide and his long back angled like that, but discomfort was something neither of them wanted to worry about.  So what if they had to limp through the next few days.  All he cared about was the man in his arms, the tight heat he was buried in, Mycroft’s ragged breathing, the combined smell of sweat and lust.  What was a sore back compared to all of that?

He rubbed his face between Mycroft’s shoulder blades, then let go of him and reached back to steady himself on the headrest.  Mycroft rocked his hips with gyrating motions and it was wreaking havoc on his senses.  With a growl that came from deep within his chest, he manhandled them both forward until Mycroft was on his elbows and knees again, and Lestrade started pounding into him.  Gone was the initial plan to make this last.  His body screamed for release and he thundered towards it, encouraged by Mycroft’s throaty moans and the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh.  It was filthy and wanton, and it filled him with white heat.  His body surged forward on the last powerful thrust and he fell across Mycroft’s body with something that sounded like a sob.  He felt Mycroft’s channel clench around his twitching cock and his hips continued to make small pumping movements as he shuddered through the aftershocks.  They both panted, trying to catch their breath, and Lestrade licked along the column of Mycroft’s neck.

“I love how you taste.” He licked again and Mycroft shuddered. “You’re delicious, and you’re beautiful.”

“Mhm.” Mycroft stretched underneath him. “I can feel your heart beat,” he murmured and Lestrade hummed.

“It’s about to jump out.” He reached for Mycroft’s hands and interlaced their fingers. “I’m not getting up again. I will just lie here.”

“Fine with me. Just, please, will you remove the condom first? It would make for an awkward situation if it got stuck.” He squirmed a little when Lestrade rubbed his stubbled chin against his ticklish spot. “Please,” he repeated.

“Oh well, since you ask so nicely.”  He made a face when their bodies came apart with a sucking noise, removed the condom and dropped it carelessly on the floor.  With a grunt he lay down next to Mycroft and pulled him into his arms, ignoring the small protesting sound.

“I’m in the mood for a little post-coital cuddle, and you had better comply, Holmes,” he said in a stern voice. 

Mycroft heaved an exaggerated sigh but let himself be drawn up and against Lestrade’s chest. “You really are a cuddler,” he stated, “and I thought you were joking.”

“I never joke about these things.” Lestrade looked down into Mycroft’s face. “When did I say that?”

“The first time I slept in your bed? When you were, ah, crawling into me, as you put it.”

“Oh, that. I remember.” He kissed Mycroft’s forehead. “And look at us now. Who would have thought.”

“Who indeed,” Mycroft acknowledged and settled himself more comfortably into Lestrade’s arms.  And if that made him a cuddler, too, well, he could always claim he’d done it to please Greg.

 

The discreet but persistent buzzing of a mobile phone yanked them out of their blissful reverie.  Mycroft cracked one eyelid open and closed it again.  Not his phone, obviously.  He’d come by in his Owl shape, and owls didn’t have pockets on them.  Not even this one.  With a groan Lestrade rolled out of bed and padded into the kitchen where he had last seen the sodding thing.  It was still buzzing by the time he got here.

“Impeccable timing, Sally,” he said with just a hint of acid in his voice. “You realise this is my evening off, yeah?”

“I know, and I apologise.” Donovan’s voice didn’t sound apologetic at all. “I thought you might be interested to hear that Beth Davenport’s been found.”

“What?” He leaned against the kitchen counter, dreading what was coming next. “Where?”

“A rental container yard by the Docklands.” He heard paper rustling and she gave him the exact location. “I’ve just arrived and it seems –” A car door was slammed shut. “– ah. Forensics are about to spread out.”

“I see. Do you need me to come in now?”

“You don’t have to.” The subtext was loud and clear, and he sighed.

“Alright. Forty-five.”

“See you in a bit, sir.” She disconnected the call and he dropped the phone on the counter with a frustrated grunt.  This was one of the few moments he wished he had followed his cousin’s example to work with his uncle.  Mechanics had the evenings and weekends off, right?

He walked back into the bedroom and sat down next to Mycroft who looked at him with his hands crossed behind his head.

“Duty calls?”

“’fraid so,” he muttered. “Beth Davenport’s been found.”

“Oh?” It was obvious that Mycroft knew exactly what he was talking about although they had taken extra care not to leak any details to the public.  But as Mycroft seemed to know everything and everybody it was very likely he had personally known the Minister of Transport’s young staff member and was as much up to date as the investigating team.

“Yeah, looks like we got ourselves a third suicide.” He nudged him and Mycroft obligingly slid over.  Lestrade shifted and flopped back so his head landed on Mycroft’s midsection.  With his left hand Mycroft started stroking Lestrade’s salt-and-pepper hair.

“Will you be long?”

“Don’t know. Forensics are about to do their little dance, I’ll be standing by and listen to their technical babble and nod and think about your hands on my skin.”

He closed his eyes and enjoyed being caressed by said hands for just a little while longer, stealing a few more precious seconds.  It was so easy, losing himself in the touches of his Bonded, and he reached for Mycroft’s right hand and kissed his knuckles.

“Will you still be here when I come back?”

“Would you like me to be here?”

“Very much.” He turned his head to look at Mycroft and met a pair of smiling eyes.

“Then I’m not going anywhere.” He gently squeezed Lestrade’s hand. “May I use your computer?”

“What’s mine is yours,” Lestrade said. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Thank you.”

Heaving another heartfelt sigh, he sat up and rubbed a hand across his face. “Better get this over with.”

He walked to his wardrobe to put on fresh underwear and a new shirt.  A whistle made him turn around.  Mycroft had propped himself up on an elbow and watched him appreciatively.

“Nice arse, Inspector.”

“Thanks, Mr Holmes.” He slapped a firm buttock. “You should have seen me in my thirties.”

“I’m quite happy with you in your forties.”

“I’m old.”

“No you’re not. You’re just grey.”

Lestrade stepped into a pair of boxer briefs and grinned at that last remark.

“Forever politically correct.” He fished for a pair of dark socks, hoping it was a matching pair.

“Not this time. Stating a fact.”

“Stop it or I’ll be late.”

“We wouldn’t want that, would we.”

“No, we wouldn’t. Arriving late means getting back late.” He reached for the suit he had hung up earlier that evening.  When he was fully dressed, he went back to the bed and leaned down for a kiss which was freely given, and quite enthusiastically so.

“Who’s the sex fiend now?” He smiled and placed a noisy kiss on the tip of Mycroft’s nose. “Keep that in mind, love.”

“I will.” Mycroft sat up and put his elbows on his knees. “Make no mistake about that. I will.”

Lestrade nodded at him and vanished through the door.

 

It took him a little over half an hour to get to the crime scene, and he parked his car right next to one of the marked police vehicles and with long strides headed for the closed-off area.  He spotted Donovan talking to one of the uniforms and waved at her.  She came to meet him and lifted the barrier tape.

“Sorry for interrupting your evening off.”

“That’s alright. It wasn’t exactly a prank call.”

“No sir, it wasn’t.”

She briefed him on how Davenport’s body had been found and he nodded his greetings to Philip Anderson, one of the Forensic officers.

“Evening, Anderson. Do you have anything for me yet?”

“Evening, Inspector.” Anderson took off one of his latex gloves and scratched his chin. “Not much. No signs of a struggle, no robbery. She only had a small handbag with her and everything seems to be there, keys, lipstick, small purse.”

“You’re sure it’s really her?”

“She’s got her ID in the purse so yes, we’re 99 per cent sure. We’ve taken her prints and application for a post-mortem is on its way.”

“Time of death?”

Anderson pursed his lips. “I’d say something between forty and forty-four hours.”

“Hm. That party where she was last seen…”

“… the day before yesterday,” Donovan confirmed. “She was celebrating her boss’ promotion, went outside for a fag and never returned. She wasn’t reported missing right away because she had asked to take the next morning off to take care of some family matter. Only when she didn’t show up at the weekly team meeting, her colleagues started asking around.”

They had reached the spot where the woman’s body had been found, hidden behind an abandoned gatehouse.  Lestrade looked down at what had been a young, aspiring politician and sighed. 

“Are you sure it’s another of these suicides?” he asked Anderson who half-shrugged, half-nodded.

“Can’t say for sure, sir, but my guess would be, yes, it’s another one. A gut feeling more than anything else, though.”

Lestrade nodded. “Very well. Do what you have to do.” Anderson put his latex glove back on and returned to the Forensics team. “Who found her?”

Donovan pointed to a middle-aged man standing near one of the police vehicles, talking to a uniformed police woman. “Toby Rollins, forklift operator. Got off his machine to, uh, relieve himself behind the old gatehouse. Called 999 right away.”

“I hope he didn’t relieve himself all over the body?”

Donovan shook her head. “Fortunately not. Had the sense to use the bushes over there instead.” She paused, then added with a malicious little grin, “We had Cooper search that corner.”

“Sally,” he chided but grinned despite himself.  John Cooper was Donovan’s least favourite team member who never failed to remind her he held a law degree and she didn’t.  Lestrade wasn’t too fond of him himself and hoped for a speedy transfer, preferably to another division altogether. “Let’s walk over and talk to him.”

Rollins was a chatty man who was only too happy to repeat everything he had just told the police woman.  His eagerness, however, seemed to stem from a genuine wish to help and not from the urge to reach for his five minutes of fame. 

“Such a lovely young lass,” he said, shaking his massive head, “what a shame. Pretty, she was. You think she was murdered?”

“We can’t say anything at this point, Mr Rollins,” Lestrade said in an apologetic tone.  He reached for one of his cards and found he had left them at home. “Sally, could you…?”

She nodded and fished one of her cards out of her jacket pocket. “Please let us know if you remember anything else, or if you overhear someone mention anything that seems odd and out of place.” She scribbled something on the card and handed it to Rollins. “This is my mobile number. The one on the card has a typo.”

Rollins put her card into the breast pocket of his denim work shirt. “Will do. Can I go now? My shift’s half over and I haven’t really done all that much yet.”

“Well, you’ve assisted in a police investigation,” she said. “That’s not exactly nothing. If your boss gives you trouble I will be glad to speak to him.”

“No, it’s not that. We’re short on personnel right now as two of the lads are ill and one’s on holiday. There’s just so much so to.”

“I see. Well, thanks for your time. Your help is much appreciated. And please call me if you remember something that might be helpful.”

He put his helmet back on, tipped a small salute and went to his forklift.

“Listen, do you still need me?” Lestrade asked, shifting from one foot to another.

She gave him a sharp look but didn’t say anything.  The corner of her mouth twitched and he huffed.

“A friend dropped by,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

“Uh-huh.” It was obvious she didn’t believe him but she was smart enough to drop it.  Instead, she jerked her chin towards the spot where Davenport’s body was lying. “I guess we’ll have to prepare ourselves for a press conference if it’s really her. Philip’s usually right about these things.”

“Philip, eh?”

It was her turn to look away.  She started as if to say something but he held a hand up to stop her.

“All good. None of my business.”

“Thank you. And yours is none of mine.”

“Exactly.”

They exchanged a meaningful look and he turned to head for his car. “Just make sure you’ll be sitting next to me at the press conference. You know how much I hate them.”

“Understood, sir. Good night.”

“Night, Sally.”

 

When he opened his front door, he was greeted by a spicy aroma wafting through the house.  He sniffed, threw his keys on the small cupboard and followed the aroma into the kitchen.  He lifted the lid off the pot that stood on the stove and took another sniff.  It was potato-and-carrot soup alright but it smelled a bit different.  Looked different, too.  Behind him, Mycroft coughed politely.

“I exchanged the cumin and coriander with Herbs de Provence. I hope you don’t mind. Cumin doesn’t agree with me.”

“How did you – ah.” He had spotted his grandmother’s recipe book lying open on the counter. “I was nervous there for a moment.”

“Greg,” Mycroft said with mild amusement, “I am not a brain hacker. I have not mysteriously downloaded all of your knowledge into my own head. But I can read and I know how to follow written instructions.”

He had reached around Lestrade and was now offering a spoonful of soup.

“Try and see if you like it.”

Lestrade blew on it to cool it down and smirked when he saw Mycroft bite his lips.  Mindspeech was not required to know which memory had just surfaced.  He directed Mycroft’s hand to bring the spoon to his mouth and hummed approvingly.

“You added some cream, too, yes? I like that. Grandma would approve.” He frowned. “Where did you get the cream? I know I didn’t have any.”

Mycroft raised a haughty eyebrow. “I have my means and ways,” he said, then looked Lestrade up and down. “Care to change into something more comfortable and less dusty? Where have you been? Crawling the desert?”

“The Docklands.” He looked down his trouser legs. “Oh. Well, it was a construction site.” He kissed Mycroft’s chin and brushed past him to head for his bedroom. “Don’t go anywhere,” he called over his shoulder.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Lestrade vanished into the bedroom and grinned at the sight of the crumpled sheets.  When was the last time his bed had looked like that?  And if he had anything to say in that matter, neither his nor Mycroft’s bed would go back to their pristine – Mycroft’s – and near-military – Lestrade’s – form in the near future.  Sheets were made to be rumpled and throw pillows, well, the name said as much.  He changed into a clean t-shirt and a pair of running shorts and on bare feet walked back into the kitchen where Mycroft had sat down at the small table, today’s newspaper on his crossed, cotton-clad legs.  He looked up when he heard Lestrade’s footsteps, folded the newspaper, placed it neatly on the counter and smiled.  It was a warm and genuine smile that extended into his eyes, and it tugged at Lestrade’s heart.

“I would very much like to kiss you now but we both know where this will lead.” He reached for a soup bowl and turned to fill it with the steaming soup. “And it would be a shame not to give this the attention it deserves.” A loud growl from Mycroft’s direction made them both laugh. “Good. I see our stomachs are in agreement.”

Mycroft accepted the bowl that was offered to him and Lestrade sat down with his.  They ate in comfortable silence, then Mycroft asked in between refilling his bowl and breaking off another piece of baguette (“Provided by your means and ways, too?” “Mhm.”),

“Need any help with getting Rory settled in?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you already checked for a nearby vet? Do you know what kind of food he likes, and how much? You know, dog… things.”

“Oh, that. Well, I’m meeting Constable Timmins tomorrow afternoon, his former handler, and as soon as I know when I can pick him up, I’m taking him shopping.”

“What?” Mycroft lowered his spoon and gave him an incredulous look. “Whatever for?”

“He needs a comfy place to sleep, yes? I’m taking him to one of these pet supply things so he can choose his own pillow. Or dog basket, whatever. I mean, he can actually talk to me, yeah? He can just tell me what he wants.”

“Are you letting him pick his own muzzle and collar, too?”

Lestrade gave a sheepish smile and Mycroft groaned. “Please, not another word. I’ll have to make sure he’ll work rigorous shifts during the days with extra parcours drills so he’ll be properly exhausted by the time he returns to you. Otherwise he’ll have you wrapped around one of his paws in less than a week.” He held up a finger when Lestrade opened his mouth to defend himself. “You know he will. I saw how you responded to his hurt puppy look back at the Dog Support Unit.”

“But you like him, too, right?”

“Of course I do. He’s exceptionally intelligent and I have no doubt he’ll be First Guardian of London soon. He’s well-trained and responsive and he’s very beautiful. He will be a valuable asset to my team, and he will be a joy to have around.” The corners of his mouth curled up. “He will love Exmoor, won’t he?”

“I bet he will. I really really want to go again.” He reached for Mycroft’s hand and laced their fingers. “Let’s take an extended weekend. Just you and me.”

“And Rory.”

“And Rory.” Lestrade nodded, deciding to ignore the mocking undertone. “You can go hunting together, and I can go swim in that small lake. The water should be warm enough by now, don’t you think?”

“I’m fairly certain it is.” He pushed his soup bowl away and leaned back with a sigh. “You are a bad influence, Greg Lestrade.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Lestrade leaned back, too, grinning.

“I’m already going through my schedule, wondering what I could skip to make time for a long weekend.” He caught Lestrade’s look and hastily corrected himself, “Delegate.”

“Mhm.” He cocked his head. “Delegate away, Myc. As long as you don’t delegate the duty of being with me.”

“Never,” Mycroft said emphatically and stood up. “Not a duty. Never a duty. Having you by my side is an honour and a privilege.”

“No need to get all formal about it.” It was meant to be delivered lightly but his heart seemed to have taken up residence in his throat, fluttering like a mad butterfly, and his voice sounded slightly constricted.

Mycroft held out his hand. “Let’s go to bed, love. I think we need to make our brains catch up with our bodies.” _::And our hearts.::_

Lestrade nodded, reached for Mycroft’s hand and let himself be led into his bedroom.

******

The press conference went exactly as he had feared.  Claiming the public’s right to know, the attending reporters were merciless.

“But you can’t have serial suicides,” one of them pointed out.

“Well, apparently you can.” Lestrade was getting tired of this.

“These three people, there’s nothing that links them?”

“No link’s been found yet but we’re looking for it. There has to be one.”

A cacophony of chirping announced incoming messages on everybody’s mobile phone.  Dozens of hands fished for their individual devices.  Lestrade pulled his phone out, too, read the message and frowned.

_Wrong!_

Donovan looked up from hers and sternly said, “If you all got texts, please ignore them.”

One reporter held his phone up. “Just says, ‘wrong’.”

“Yes, well, just ignore it.” She looked around the room. “If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I’m going to bring this session to an end.”

“But if they’re suicides, what are you investigating?” The reporter wouldn’t let go.

Valid question. Lestrade shifted in his seat. “As I say, these suicides are clearly linked. Uhm, it’s an unusual situation but we’ve got our best people investigating and –”

More chirping.

“Says ‘wrong’ again.”

Lestrade shot a desperate look at Donovan who addressed the reporters once more.

“One more question.”

A female reporter raised her hand and Lestrade nodded at her.

“Is there any chance these are murders? And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?”

He’d been waiting for this.  The press loved serial killers. “I know you like writing about them but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, uh, the poison was clearly self-administered.” 

“Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?”

“Well,” he said, irritated, “don’t commit suicide.”  It was out before he knew what he was saying, and he looked down into a mass of shocked faces.  Beside him, Donovan covered her mouth and murmured, “Daily Mail”.

Great. He could see the headlines. 

_Are our citizens safe?  
Police hand out callous advice_

Shielding would love this.

He cleared his throat and tried to get his foot out of his mouth. “Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precaution. We are all as safe as we want to be.”

Another wave of chirping.  Lestrade’s phone buzzed a few seconds later, like an echo.  He glanced at the screen.

_You know where to find me.  
SH_

He stood up, slipped the phone into his pocket and looked at the reporters. “Thank you.”

 

“You’ve got to stop him doing that. He’s making us look like idiots,” Donovan angrily said on their way back.

“Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.”  Wishful thinking.  Once Sherlock Holmes had sunk his teeth into something, there was no stopping him.

“Lestrade?” DCI Shielding’s voice boomed across the corridor. “Into my office, if you please. You, too, Donovan.”

They looked at each other but turned around obediently.  They had learned that there was no hiding spot their boss didn’t know about.  The sooner they faced him, the less painful it would be.

 _Happy thoughts_ , Lestrade reminded himself. _Think happy thoughts. Think Mycroft. And… Rory_.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Lestrade zipped into a coverall and looked up when Sherlock Holmes stepped into the room. 

“Who’s this?” he asked, indicating towards the short man accompanying him.

“He’s with me,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“But who is he?”

“I said he’s with me.” He reached for a pair of latex gloves.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything, focussing on the stranger instead.  Short, sturdy fellow in his mid- to late thirties, walking with a bad limp.  Ashblondish-greying hair, neatly cut, eyes wary and alert, something military in his overall posture despite his cane.

The stranger took off his light jacket and immediately grabbed a coverall as if it was the most natural thing to do.

“Aren’t you going to put one on?” he asked Sherlock who scowled at him and turned to Lestrade instead.

“So. Where are we?”

Lestrade picked up another pair of gloves. “Upstairs.”

He led the way up a circular staircase to the second floor.

“I can give you two minutes.”

“May need longer,” Sherlock said.

They followed him into a room where a woman’s body lay face down on the floor in the middle of the room, all dressed in pink.

“Her name’s Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her.”

He stepped back and watched as Sherlock scanned the crime scene.  Behind him, the stranger’s face filled with sadness.  Here was somebody who was clearly more familiar with death than was good for him, and not in an abstract fashion, either.  This man looked like someone who had seen people die, someone who had had to deal with losses on a deeply personal level.  Interesting.  He would have to find out about the connection Sherlock had with this man.  Maybe Mycroft knew.

 _Mycroft_.  He stifled a grin despite his surroundings and let his thoughts wander off for a few moments while Sherlock was examining the dead body of Jennifer Wilson.  Mycroft had texted him the link to a pet supply shop earlier that day. _Good selection of pillows. M,_ the message had read.  He wouldn’t be able to pick Rory up before Monday, but had already spoken with Constable Timmins who had gladly provided him with Rory’s dietary requirements (“None, he’s in perfect health and will eat anything so make sure it’s of good quality, and he’s used to eating twice a day.”), the address of the vet he’d been taking him for his annual shots and treatment for whatever wounds he had encountered while on duty, and he’d brought him up to speed with Rory’s daily routine.

“I am so glad you’re taking him in, sir,” the young man had said in a trembling voice. “He’ll be in good hands, yes?”

Lestrade had reassured him that yes, Rory would be in the best of hands and no, he would not be left to himself while he, Lestrade, was working.  Timmins had nodded and they had shaken hands. 

God, he hoped Mycroft would be able to take an extended weekend soon.  Or even a regular weekend.  He wouldn’t mind driving up to Exmoor during the night, as long as it meant they’d have some time for each other.  Just the two of them.  Rory, too.  Snowdrop Valley had to be beautiful in summer, and he longed to take some time away from all of this.  Images of him and Mycroft having sex on the terrace flooded his mind.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, giving him a disgusted stare.

“I didn’t say anything,” he defended himself, startled out of his daydreams.

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.” _::And for heaven’s sakes, stop thinking about my brother’s penis up your arse. Or anywhere else. It’s revolting and it’s making me retch.::_

The detective’s Mindvoice sounded indignant and Lestrade grit his teeth to stop himself from laughing.  Sherlock’s companion shot him a surprised look but didn’t say anything.

Lestrade focussed on the task at hand, letting Sherlock draw his conclusions and making some quiet observations of his own.  Sherlock was being his usual charming self, whipping out detail after detail, and yet, there was something new to his behaviour.  He was positively preening.  Displaying his feathers, and it wasn’t lost on…

“Doctor Watson?”

Watson looked at Lestrade, as if seeking permission, and Lestrade said, a little irritated, “Oh, do as he says. Help yourself.”

He stepped outside to speak to Anderson for a moment, then returned and watched as Watson, kneeling on the floor and balancing awkwardly on one knee, pulled his bad leg close to his body, slowly and painfully, and came to a crouching position.  Sherlock listened as he gave a brief medical assessment, then stood up and listed his findings with a speed that made Lestrade’s head swim.  He was used to this by now but it still filled him with wonder how anyone could do that, notice the tiniest of details and derive actual, useful facts from them.

“That’s fantastic!” Watson said, not bothering to hide his admiration.

Sherlock turned to him. “Do you know you do that out loud?” It was spoken in a low voice but loud enough for Lestrade to understand it.

“Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“No,” Sherlock said, “it’s… fine.”  The look on his face was hard to read but Lestrade thought he saw something like surprise in it.  Surprise at being admired instead of being rejected? 

 _Very interesting_.

******

“Say,” Lestrade said, settling his head comfortably in the crook of Mycroft’s arm, “that Watson bloke Sherlock’s been dragging around all day?”

“Mhm?” Mycroft let his arm be draped across Lestrade’s chest, conceding – again – to some post-coital cuddling. “What of him?”

“Have you met him yet?”

“Yes, I have. We met for a brief conversation earlier tonight.”

“Oh yeah?”

Mycroft smiled but didn’t elaborate, and Lestrade didn’t ask.  Dealing with the Holmes brothers had taught him which kind of silence waited to be explored and which one didn’t.  This belonged into the latter category and prying would be useless.

“So, what do you think of him?” He turned his head and looked into Mycroft’s face.  Mycroft frowned and pursed his lips.

“Physician and military. Came back from Afghanistan wounded and traumatised, honourably discharged and decorated. His therapist diagnosed post-traumatic stress disorder which is correct but she still got it wrong. He thrives on danger, not calm.” With his free hand he began caressing Lestrade’s warm skin.  Lestrade sighed with content and rubbed his face against Mycroft’s chest, his stubble making a rasping sound.

“I used to think stubble burn was something of an urban myth,” Mycroft chided gently. “You have taught me otherwise.”

“I have yet to hear you complain.” He repeated the motion, and Mycroft playfully pulled at the greying strands.

“As long as the red patches can be covered up, there will be no complaints at all.” He pressed a kiss into Lestrade’s hair. “I enjoy getting them.”

“You do?”

“They remind me of you. Of us,” Mycroft simply said and Lestrade slid up for a kiss.

“Watson,” he said after a while. “There’s something about him but I can’t place it.”

“He’s an Anchor.”

“Oh?” Lestrade reached for the sheet and pulled it up.  He wasn’t actually cold but there was something sexy about being naked in bed with Mycroft Holmes and having one of his ridiculously expensive sheets cover them both. “I thought I picked something up but Sherlock was being especially lovable, and it was gone before I could place it.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Mycroft reassured him. “It won’t be long before you will recognise Power for what it is.”

“Is he any good, do you think?”

“He is very strong, if that’s what you’re asking. He’s not as strong as you are but his abilities are quite remarkable. I’ve looked into his files and he used to be quiet and rather low-key before he enlisted.” He shifted into a more comfortable position. “Then something happened in Afghanistan and all of his channels were blasted open.” He worried his lower lip. “There’s only one thing that causes such trauma.”

“Oh no.” Lestrade looked up, alarmed. “A broken Bond?”

Mycroft nodded with a grim expression. “He’s very well Shielded but there’s pain seeping through nevertheless. Such pain.” He pulled Lestrade closer, seemingly without noticing, and Lestrade Sent warmth and tenderness through their Link.  Mycroft closed his eyes. “I’ve seen people break from this.”

“He seemed alright around Sherlock.” He chuckled as he remembered Sherlock preening before his short companion. “And you know what? I think Sherlock wanted to impress him.”

“Did he now?” Mycroft said slowly and Lestrade looked up, trying to read the meaning of that odd undertone.

“Yeah, I think so. Just imagine, when Sherlock made one of his especially tactless remarks, Watson ticked him off and Sherlock actually stepped back.”

“Imagine that.” A faint smile ghosted across Mycroft’s face. “That’s a promising start.” He placed a finger underneath Lestrade’s chin and tilted his face up. “If I remember correctly, you were about to discuss an extended weekend at Exmoor before we got, uhm, sidetracked?”

******

 _Happy thoughts, Lestrade,_ he reminded himself, _think happy thoughts._

The e-mail he had just opened didn’t invite happy thoughts, however.  He pinched the bridge of his nose in helpless frustration.  A monetary fine in the lower four digit range seemed to sufficient when it came to wildlife crime.  A slap on the wrist for creating a slaughterhouse since it had not been possible to satisfactorily link the two arrested Weresnatchers to the crime scene at Richmond Park.  They had been found guilty of placing snares, of minor poaching and killing a few stray dogs and cats, and judging from the photos, had left court smirking and waving.

He forwarded the message to Mycroft’s personal e-mail account via the secure server they both used. _‘Can you believe that?’_ he typed into the text box, _‘Is there nothing we can do?’_

His phone rang half an hour later.

“Sadly, criminal justice is done here,” Mycroft said without preamble. “But don’t work yourself into a fury, Greg. Both gentlemen will receive a personal invitation to appear before the High Council by the end of today. I have no doubt they will be found guilty and tried accordingly.”

“The High Council?” Lestrade repeated blankly, then, “Oh! The Were and Shifter thing?”

“Correct.” He paused. “It will be your first public appearance as my Bonded partner and I deeply regret it’s such an unpleasant affair. I had hoped for either a regular gathering or maybe even a more joyous event.”

“Such as?”

“Promotions, for example. A handfasting ceremony.”

“Handfasting? Really?”

“Of course. Not everyone chooses to speak their vows before a priest of one of the world’s major religions, especially not within our community.”

“Ah. That makes sense, I guess. So. Well. My first appearance by your side, huh.” Lestrade swallowed, suddenly nervous. “Is there anything I need to learn or practise?”

“Learn or practise?”

“You know, ah, phrases or a ritual or something?”

“Not at all. You will find it not so very different from the kind of hearing you are used to. There’s a jury, there’s a judge. No prosecutor, no criminal defence, however. The accused will be forced to lay their minds open to the judge and jury and based upon the findings, a judgement will be delivered.”

“Lay their minds open?”

“They will be subject to a mind probe after witnesses have been heard and evidence has been found to be satisfactory.”

“That sounds easy.”

“It does sound easy, but it isn’t. It’s far from easy and it’s something I am not looking forward to. Mindsearch is slow and unpleasant and it drains a lot of energy.”

“Not anymore,” Lestrade said. “I will be there.”

“Yes, you will be. And for that I am forever grateful.” His smile was audible. “It might be best to bring Rory.”

“Do you think he’s up for it? He pretty much lost it the last time he faced these two. Cost him his job, remember?”

“Circumstances are different now, Greg,” Mycroft pointed out. “The application to promote him to First Guardian has been handed in, just as I thought, and it is about to be approved. He’s in my employ and in your care. He will not lose his temper a second time.” He paused, then added with a regretful tone, “In fact, I had hoped his promotion would be our first public appearance.”

“What, like the First Family?” Lestrade grinned and Mycroft huffed in response.

“Count on you to phrase it like that. Yes, like the First Family, if you insist.”

“Well,” Lestrade said drily, “I am not the First Lady, that’s for sure.”

The noise at the other end sounded suspiciously like a muffled snort that quickly transformed into a harrumph.  Not much better but not quite as rude.

“Shame, Gregory. And here goes another secret fantasy.”

“What’s that?”

“Lingerie.”

Lestrade drew a breath so hard he started coughing. “Damn you, Holmes,” he finally managed. “You will not speak to Jeremy Mackles in my absence again. Not on the phone, not in person, not in mind.”

“But he’s a valuable asset amongst the Oxford Anchors,” Mycroft pointed out with cheerful ignorance.

“I don’t give a shit. He could be your second in command. I won’t have it.” He coughed some more. “Lingerie. Lace, huh?”

“Mhm. Flimsy, too.”

“Yeah and wouldn’t that look good on my hairy arse.”

Now Mycroft started coughing, and they both laughed until they wheezed.

“That’s settled then,” Lestrade finally said. “I’m glad you called. You managed to turn a spell of very foul mood into something almost uplifting. Given the circumstances.”

“And I am glad to hear it.”

“Will you speak to Rory?”

“I’m not sure I’ll see him today. His team has taken him to Dartford to examine the factory site and I am fairly certain they will drop him off at your house when they’re done.”

“Alright, I’ll speak to him then. Maybe there’ll be enough energy left in him do go running with me.”

“You do that.”

“Will I see you tonight?” he asked hopefully.

“Sadly, no. I need to attend a late meeting.”

“Afterwards?”

“In Warsaw.”

“Oh. What are you doing – no, sorry,” he interrupted himself, “I don’t need to know. I don’t want to know. Just come back safely, yes?”

“I’ll do my very best,” Mycroft promised.

******

Rory all but jumped him the instant he opened the front door.  He barely managed to nod his thanks to the young Shifter team who tried very hard to hide their amusement but failed miserably.

“Can you believe that’s the fierce creature who’s found even the most impossible traces and tracks earlier this afternoon?” The female Shifter – Marion, her name was, Lestrade thought – shook her head, laughing. “And look at him now. Five months old.”  She threw leash and muzzle to Lestrade who caught the items in one hand.

“Thanks,” he called after them and closed the door with one foot, balancing awkwardly on the other with Rory plastered against his chest.

“Will you stop licking my face,” he protested, laughing. “I know it’s meant kindly but it’s enough now. I know you’re glad to be home, thank you.” He gently but firmly pushed him away and back down. “Sit.”

Rory obeyed, tail thumping enthusiastically on the floor.

“I was going to ask you whether you’re up for a run.” He pulled one of Rory’s large ears. “But I guess you will outrun me.”

 _::I will not leave your side, master.::_ Rory cocked his head. _::You walk, I walk. You run, I run.::_

“Very well then. Let me go and get changed.”

 

Thirty minutes later they were running through Battersea Park at an easy pace.  Rory was wearing a clear vinyl muzzle, comfortable yet secure enough for Lestrade to unleash him.  Rory kept to his promise and ran right next to Lestrade, keeping a perfectly measured distance. 

They had quickly fallen into a pleasant routine and after only two weeks, Lestrade found it hard to picture his life without the large Shepherd in it.  Rory was exceptionally well-trained, just as a former Metropolitan police dog should be, and Mycroft’s teams put their own dogs through the same training routines as the Dog Support Unit, if not stricter.  His superior intelligence made handling him laughably easy, and while Mycroft had not been entirely wrong in his suspicion about Rory wrapping Lestrade around one of his paws, he hadn’t been entirely right, either.  Lestrade’s heart was soft, yes, but his mind wasn’t, and Rory’s personality was anything but that of a pet dog’s.  He loved being groomed and cuddled and he loved to play but he never pressed it.  He slept outside on the huge pillow they had bought for him although Lestrade left the terrace door open for him to come and go as he pleased, and knew to keep his distance when Mycroft was around.

They ran past the pond with the ‘hissing swans’ – Lestrade smiled each time he ran by, always thinking about the little boy who had been so excited about them – and stopped by a row of wooden benches near a small food stall.  Lestrade bought two bottles of water and asked for a plastic bowl.

“For your dog?” The young man craned his neck to peer at Rory who had sat down on his haunches. “That’s a beauty. Is it a he or a she?”

“His name’s Rory,” Lestrade said with something akin to paternal pride, and the young man smiled.

“Well then, hello Rory!” He reached behind him and produced a plastic dish. “I had some noodle salad in there but I’ve rinsed it.”

“You don’t mind?”

“He’ll just drink water from it, right?”

“Right.”

“See. It’ll go into the dishwasher tonight and all’s good. No harm done.”

“Thanks, mate.” Lestrade paid for the water and took the bowl. “Come on then. Half-time.”

He emptied one of the bottles into the bowl and placed it next to one of the benches, took Rory’s muzzle off and clipped the leash back on to avoid nervous reactions at the sight of a large dog with neither muzzle nor leash.  With a content sigh he leaned back and watched Rory drink.

 _::This is just so much more fun with you around,::_ he observed and grinned when a cold snout was pressed against his knee. _::Running used to be a lonely thing.::_ He gulped down some water and started scratching Rory’s head. _::How do you like your new assignment? Are you being treated well, and are the tasks to your liking?::_

Rory placed his muzzle on Lestrade’s knee and looked at him out of his alert amber eyes.

_::Very good. Good packleader, good missions, enough food, enough rest.::_

_::That’s good. You do not miss the police, then?::_

_::I miss Suzie. I think about her often. I miss playing with her. But I have a new home now, a new packleader and a new master. My life is good.::_

_::Thank you. It makes me very happy to hear that. I love having you around, and Mycroft speaks very highly of you.::_

Rory’s ears perked up. _::My lord is pleased with my work?::_

 _::Very much so. He does not regret taking you on.::_ Lestrade laughed when Rory jumped up to stand to attention and patted his back. _::Come now, no need to get all excited. He will make you earn your keep, make no mistake about that.::_

 _::It is an honour to serve the Owl.::_ Rory gave an excited bark and Lestrade grabbed his muzzle.

“Don’t bark,” he said warningly. “You’re making the others nervous.”

The dog hung his head in embarrassment and Lestrade immediately scratched his head. _::It’s alright, no harm done. Just don’t forget that to most people, you’re a very big dog. Drink up and let me put your muzzle back on.::_

He emptied his bottle and waited for Rory to lap up the rest of his water, then bent down and fastened the muzzle.

“Let’s return the bowl and get home. I have a huge file sitting on my coffee table, waiting to be read. And the two of us have business to discuss, too.”

After handing the plastic dish back to its rightful owner, they walked for a few minutes but picked up speed as soon as Lestrade was ready. 

On the way home they stopped to pick up some Thai takeaway which Lestrade wolfed down as soon as he had fed Rory, and after showering and changing into a pair of faded joggers and an equally faded t-shirt, grabbed a beer from the fridge and the file from the coffee table and sat down on his terrace.  Rory curled up next to him on the wooden floor boards and fell asleep almost immediately.  Lestrade watched him sleep for a while and felt a wave of peace wash over him.  He couldn’t think of anything as soothing as the sound of Rory’s regular breathing and the sight of his chest rise and fall.  Except for Mycroft’s hands caressing his skin.

He stifled a sigh.  Warsaw.  Too far away.

******

The hearing before the High Council had been scheduled to take place on a Wednesday evening and Lestrade stood before his house, waiting for the car to pick him and Rory up, caught between the need for a cigarette and the urge to fidget.  He fumbled with his hunting glove instead and cast a look down at Rory who sat by his side like a statue, ears pointing forward, every inch the First Guardian of London and well aware of the importance of the task lying before him.  Lestrade had picked a dark grey suit with a striped shirt and a charcoal tie for the occasion, had polished his shoes and brushed Rory’s coat, hoping they looked respectable enough for their first public appearance. 

He squinted into the sun and shielded his eyes.  There.  A dark blue limousine turned into the street and pulled up just before his house.

“Well, guess it’s time,” he told Rory who looked up at him. “Are you ready?”

_::Yes, master.::_

“Let’s go.”

They made their way towards the car.  The driver held the passenger door open for them and Lestrade nodded his thanks.

“Good evening, Terry. Kind of you to pick us up.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

The door was closed and Lestrade settled into the generous leather seats.  Rory lay down on the floor as there was plenty of legroom, and closed his eyes. 

“Where are we going?”

“Richmond Park, sir,” came Terry’s reply. “The Council will meet on the clearing.”

“Oh? Isn’t that a bit too prominent? It’s not even dark yet.”

“The area’s been sealed off.”

“I see.” Of course it would be.  It was Mycroft Holmes who was in charge after all.  He allowed himself to relax a little into the seat and reached down to scratch Rory’s head.  The thumping sound of the dog’s tail made him smile.  They had bonded quickly, the DI and his dog, as Mycroft called them.  Their connection was nowhere near as intense as the Bond he shared with Mycroft but it was deep nevertheless.  Rory respected and liked Mycroft, his ‘lord’, and obeyed him without questioning, but it was Lestrade who had won the Shepherd’s undying love and loyalty, and Rory never tired of demonstrating it.  He would go to his death if ordered by Mycroft, but he would throw himself between Lestrade and any oncoming danger without being prompted, a fact Lestrade found both deeply touching and utterly terrifying.

The car pulled up to a closed-off area and after Terry passed the mental ID check, they were waved through and drove along a narrow path until they came to stop next to an opening in one of the hedges.  Lestrade got out without waiting for the driver to open the door for him – he was having a hard time getting used to being chauffeured around – and snapped his fingers at Rory who jumped out immediately. 

Myc swooped down from one of the trees and landed on a tree stump next to the opening, and now Lestrade recognised the spot.  They were where his half-blind run through the woods had started all that time ago when ‘Mike’ had led the way to the crime scene.  He wouldn’t have to stumble tonight, not only because it wasn’t that dark yet but because he’d been practising Sharing with his Owl, and he could rely on both Myc and Rory to safely lead him anywhere he needed to go.

Myc fixed his huge round eyes on him.

_::Good evening, Greg. I trust all went well?::_

_::Thanks Myc. Yeah, Terry was right on time.::_

_::I didn’t expect otherwise. Are you ready?::_

_::A little nervous, but yes, I am ready.::_

_::Rory?::_

_::Yes, my lord. I am ready.::_

_::Very well.::_ Myc swivelled his head to look at Terry who stood by the car, waiting for instructions. _::Terry, thank you. You may take a break now. Should you wish to attend the hearing, please feel free to join us, but you are not obliged to do so.::_

“Thank you, sir. I would indeed like to listen in. With your permission, I will Shift and follow you.”

Myc tilted his head, indicating his approval.  Lestrade slipped the hunting glove on and offered his arm to Myc who stepped on but immediately hopped further up to sit on his shoulder.

 _::Good idea.::_ He removed the glove. _::Guess that’s easier. It’s quite a bit to walk, if I remember correctly.::_

_::Closer than you think. You had to find your way through darkness the last time you were here.::_

Lestrade involuntarily shuddered. _::Don’t remind me. That was one of the most horrible nights of my life.::_

Myc touched his beak to Lestrade’s cheek in a gesture of affection.

_::It was horrible for all of us. Let’s get this to a close now, shall we.::_

They started walking, passing numerous guards who were placed in regular intervals along the way.  The way onto the clearing was flanked by two massive grey wolves who immediately sat down on their haunches as soon as Lestrade came into view with Myc perched on his shoulder and Rory by his side.

 _::Glove, Greg,::_ Myc said quietly, and Lestrade hurried to slip the glove back on.  Myc hopped down to his forearm and turned his head to look at the Wolves.

_::Announce us, if you please.::_

The Wolves turned so they faced the clearing and started howling in unison.  A shiver ran down Lestrade’s spine and he felt Rory stiffen.  There was something unearthly in the wolves’ howl and it was no wonder there were so many legends around those who created these eerie sounds.

When the howling died down, Myc signalled Lestrade to walk onto the clearing.  They stood there for a moment and Lestrade felt hundreds of eyes zone in on him.  He stared straight ahead, Myc’s weight on his arm a calming presence.

 _::Behold, the Owl and his Consort,::_ a bodiless voice announced, booming across the whispers, silencing them.

His _consort_?  Lestrade felt his mouth twitch and Myc shot him a look.

_::Apologies, Greg, I should have told you. The vocabulary is very traditional, to say the least.::_

_::It is indeed. I should have practised my curtsy.::_

Myc’s feet closed around his wrist in silent amusement but he immediately focussed his attention on the clearing’s centre where the Weresnatchers stood, hands bound at the wrists, their facial expressions a mix of defiance and fear.  Behind both of them stood two tall and broad-shouldered young men in smart dark suits, their faces impassive masks.  Lestrade recognised one of them as somebody who had accompanied Mycroft on one of his impromptu trips; he had rang the doorbell to pick him up.  The name escaped him but he certainly looked like somebody you wouldn’t want for an enemy.

He looked around him, trying to take in the odd assembly of species gathered – rabbits sitting next to foxes, a pair of partridges sharing a patch of moss with a badger, hawks, crows, mice, boars, deer… animals who would be careful never to cross each other’s path sat patiently side by side, and Lestrade had to remind himself these weren’t actual animals but Weres and Shifters.  He noticed a compact black Schnauzer who looked at him out of watchful dark eyes and tilted his head in a solemn greeting.  _Shielding_.  His boss sported a remarkable moustache both in human and in canine form, and Lestrade returned the greeting, suppressing a grin. 

A red deer stag with impressive antlers stepped up from where he had stood waiting in the shadow and lowered his head in greeting.

 _::Greetings, my lords.::_ So the booming voice had been his.  Lestrade inclined his head, as did Myc and Rory.

_::We have gathered here tonight to discuss the hideous slaughter of our furred and feathered brothers and sisters and the involvement of Timothy Ross and Douglas Leary, both present amongst us tonight.::_

With these words the court hearing began, and it was the most bizarre one Lestrade had ever attended.  Mycroft had been right, it followed largely the rules and regulations he was used to, and yet, being questioned by a Fox, a Hare and a Red Kite felt surreal at best, and giving his testimony entirely in Mindspeech was harder than he had expected.  He was becoming more comfortable using it but the conversations with Rory were hardly challenging, and he tended to speak with Mycroft rather than Thinking at him although they shared the more private observation and thoughts with the help of Mindspeech – but still, it was different and a lot easier than giving a statement.

Constable Warwick testified immediately after him.  The young policeman had Shifted into an Airedale Terrier which matched his personality, Lestrade thought.  Friendly, confident, concentrated and outgoing.  His statement was given fluently, coherently and without hesitation, as were the ones of the witnesses that followed.

Myc had hopped back onto his shoulder sometime during the hearings when he felt Lestrade’s arm beginning to tremble.  His body posture transported control and confidence, not one feather out of place, but Lestrade Felt his grief as the evidence against the two Shifters piled up, making an outcome leaning towards extenuating circumstances more and more unlikely.

The cross-examination of both men was unpleasant and Lestrade watched in stunned silence as their minds were pried open, making them fall to their knees and cover their heads.  Still, he didn’t find it in him to feel pity, the memory of the slaughtered animals, the crying fox cub and the dying Rottweiler too fresh in his memory.  Both Ross and Leary had carried out the killing and skinning of countless animals and the abduction and drugging of an equally large number of Weres and Shifters, but while they readily confessed to these crimes after being subject to extensive Mindsearching, no prying brought forth details of those in charge, until…

“Moriarty,” Learly howled, and “Moran,” Ross added through clenched teeth.  On his left shoulder, Lestrade felt Myc slump ever so slightly and he immediately flung him a mental life-line, offering strength.  It came as natural as breathing and their Bond hummed when Myc Reached for what was offered.

 _Moran_.  Why did that name ring a bell?  He made a mental note to check the police files the next day.  He was sure he had heard the name before.

No useful physical description was to be had, however, although images of one orange striped and one sleek black and white tom floated up in the background of Leary’s mind.

 _::Greg, step up to the Jury,::_ Myc said, blocking everyone else out as he had all evening when he was giving directions that were intended solely for Lestrade’s ears.  Lestrade obeyed.

 _::Lords and Ladies of the Jury,::_ Myc began. _::Allow me to sum up the case at hand so you may reach a fair and proper verdict.::_ His Mindvoice carried across the clearing, for each and every one present to hear.  When he was done, not a sound was to be heard.  It was as if the trees themselves had stopped moving with the breeze.  Leary and Ross had risen from where they had dropped to their knees but stood stock-still, hardly breathing.  When Myc was done summing up, the jury was led in the direction of a group of bushes where they were hidden from the audience’s sight, and a herd of adult bucks formed an impenetrable circle around them to further protect their privacy.

As this was clearly a break in the agenda for all others, many took the chance to come up to their small group to introduce themselves and offer their congratulations and ensure their cooperation.  Names and ranks rained down on Lestrade who managed to stand ramrod straight and smiled until his face hurt.

 _::Lestrade, good to have you on board,::_ a familiar voice said and Lestrade looked down at DCI Shielding whose impressive canine moustache bristled in a very familiar way, and this time, his smile was genuine.

_::Good evening, sir, and thank you.::_

The Schnauzer cocked his head.  _::How’re you holding up?::_

Lestrade permitted himself a small sigh. _::It’s my first public appearance, sir, and it’s not precisely filled with joy.::_

_::Indeed it isn’t. You will grow into your new role quickly, I am sure of it.::_

_::Thank you.::_

Shielding bowed to Myc who returned the polite gesture with a tilt of his head, and after he and Rory had extensively sniffed each other, the black Schnauzer disappeared into the audience.

 _::My lords, gentle audience,::_ the Stag’s voice boomed across the clearing. _::The Jury has come to a verdict. Please resume your seats.::_

Everybody’s eyes were on the members of the jury who returned from their secluded spot to where they had stood before.  A young Fallow Doe stepped forward nervously, huge dark eyes fixed on the Stag who nodded at her encouragingly.

_::After careful consideration of the facts presented to us during the hearings and as summed up by my lord The Owl, we have found both defendants to be guilty.::_

_::What are the voting figures?::_

_::Twelve – zero.::_ It was delivered in a firm voice, and the audience started to cheer.

 _::Silence!::_ thundered the Stag, and all other voices died away as he turned to face Ross and Leary who had lost all of their defiance and cockiness.

 _::Timothy Ross, Douglas Leary,::_ he addressed them. _::You have heard the Jury’s verdict. Have you understood it?::_

Both men nodded.

_::Are you ready to hear the sentence?::_

Ross started as if to say anything but closed his mouth. _::Yes,::_ he said instead.

 _::Yes,::_ echoed Leary.

The Stag stepped forward and came to stand where he could be clearly seen by everybody.  When he was sure he had everybody’s attention, he started speaking.

 _::You will be stripped of your abilities.::_ The words were delivered in an odd singsong. _::You will be stripped of your memories. One of you shall remain man, one of you shall remain animal. You will become bound to each other, not bearing to part. You will dedicate your lives to the well-being of animals, and you will do so at a location of our choosing.::_

Ross and Leary had sneered at the first words but blanched as the Mindvoice continued.  Being stripped of their Shifting abilities was something they might even welcome, given how their minds seemed to work, but the rest was too horrible to bear.  Leary was the first to try and bolt but the young man behind him moved with lightning speed, clamping his big hands around his biceps and keeping him in place. 

Ross merely hung his head. “Who gets to decide which one of us remains man?” It came out as a croak and Myc swivelled his head around to meet his eyes.

_::You do.::_

“What?”

_::You heard me. You have five minutes to discuss.::_

“No need to discuss,” Leary said, disdain dripping from his voice. “Look at you. Shaking in your boots like a pansy. You’re such a shit. Go change into a chicken.”

“I will not. You change. You, always being the cool cat who knows just what to do. You change!” He spat into his partner’s face and Leary hissed.

“Fine! Whatever! I’ll do it. I’ll change.” He raised his chin. “I’ll change into a cat to I can scratch his sorry arse and piss all over his place. I’ll make your life hell, you fuck!”

 _::Enough!::_ Myc’s Mindvoice cracked like a whip. _::Is that your final word?::_

“It is. I stand by it. I choose a cat’s life.”

_::So be it.::_

Lestrade felt Myc Reach for him and he opened his channels wide, understanding without further explanation that what was coming next would drain Myc’s energy to an extent that would leave him with barely enough strength to hold himself upright.

Myc’s huge eyes started glowing an intense electric blue, and Lestrade knew his own were glowing amber in response.  Leary and Ross fell to their knees again and started writhing as if in agony as their minds were stripped of their abilities and their memories were erased to a point where they would remember nothing but the basics – how to function satisfactorily within their assigned roles.  Ross would appear to be just another amnesia victim who remembered everything up to the moment of the accident that had caused his memory loss, and Leary would be an ordinary cat with a cat’s instincts and a cat’s knowledge.  Neither would remember who they were or what they had spent their time on up to this point.  It was a harsh sentence, Lestrade thought, and at the same time, it was a merciful one.  He would have to bury his nose in the laws and overall legal system of the Were and Shifter community if he wanted to become a valuable member and a worthy… consort.

He watched without flinching as Leary Shifted one last time.  The Shifting process was slow and ungraceful, very much unlike the smooth process he had got used to seeing when Mycroft Shifted, and when it was done and over with, Ross’ mind wiped clean, Leary transformed, both of them bound to each other, Myc trembled and slumped against Lestrade’s chest.  Lestrade immediately steadied him and stroked his feathers with soothing movements, Sending strength and praise and love through their Bond until Myc stopped shaking.  He shifted the bird to his other arm, not caring about the holes Myc’s talons would pierce into the sleeve of one of his better suits, and Myc summoned up enough strength to sit straight on Lestrade’s arm and let a steady gaze travel across the crowd.

 _::The verdict has been heard. The verdict has been understood. The sentence has been carried out. The case of Timothy Ross and Douglas Leary has been closed. I hereby declare this hearing ended. I thank you all for your support.::_ After a small pause, he added, _::And I thank you for welcoming my Bonded and our Guardian.::_

Next to them, Rory stirred and inched close enough for Lestrade to feel his body heat.  They waited patiently until the clearing was empty but for the Red Stag and the Grey Wolves.  Myc thanked each of them extensively and in private and it wasn’t before they, too, had left, that the Owl swayed and would have fallen if not for the steady hands of his Bonded who huddled him close to his chest, murmuring words of appreciation and admiration.

 _::Call Terry and take me home, Greg.::_ Myc said, sounding utterly exhausted. _::I have cleared my schedule for tomorrow morning and I intend to spend the next fourteen hours in bed. Preferably with you, if that is alright.::_

_::That is quite alright with me, love. If only to make sure you get the rest you need.::_

Myc blinked his eyes sleepily and Lestrade gently stroked his chest.  He might never excel at political subtleties or social graces, but he knew how to take care of those seeking protection and shelter, and so what if the creature in his arms was The Owl, in charge of this country’s metamorph community, or Mycroft Holmes, politician and master spy.  He would look after him and protect him as best he could.

That was his calling.  And he was good at it.

 

 


	15. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The Eagle Owl was getting tired. It had seemed a good idea to touch base with the Exeter branch but maybe he shouldn’t have insisted of flying there all by himself instead of letting himself be driven. Although he wouldn’t admit it out loud, a flight of more than forty miles was more than challenging, even for him, even with the new source of strength he could tap into when needed.

Still, it had been a good meeting, and necessary, too. There had been tenacious disagreements for quite some time, based on touchy, hierarchy-driven positions, and when negotiations had come to a standstill, the situation had been brought to his attention. In the end, satisfactory results had been achieved and nobody’s feathers had been ruffled too much and nobody’s coat had been stroked the wrong way either.

However, two names had popped up in Exeter that had made his alarms go off.

Moran. Moriarty.

The very same names that had been given during the Weresnatcher’s trial. Furthermore, Moriarty was the name that had come up in his brother’s near-fatal encounter with the cab driver. And neither the orange striped tom nor his black and white partner had been seen anywhere since the trial. Here was something that called for further investigation and he had already alerted his second in command.

Right now, however, his first priority was to get back to Exmoor to enjoy the remains of a long weekend he had treated himself to, and he had no intention to allow for any more disturbances. Just this once, he would let his team handle the initial steps to prepare for the oncoming storm. He had trained them well and neither England nor the Community would crumble if he stayed in hiding for three more precious days of privacy and solitude.

Just a few more miles, and the familiar outlines of Snowdrop Valley came into view. He zoomed in on the shape of his weekend home, the light of the evening sun reflecting off the Aston’s metallic roof right next to the house.

 _There_. His sharp eyes found what he had been looking for, and warmth and a surge of additional strength flooded him as he recognised more and more details the closer he got. His Bonded was lying in the grass underneath an old tree with a mighty crown that gave shelter from a sun that was still strong. He had his head propped up against the ribcage of Rory, their Guardian, and was looking up into the sky expectantly, shielding his eyes against the sun.

The Owl landed as close as he could, as if drawn in by a powerful magnet, and on his long legs made his way straight towards the man.

“There you are, my love.” Lestrade circled an arm around the bird and the Owl let himself be pulled against his bare upper body that radiated warmth and smelled of sandalwood, grass and Greg. “My beauty,” he murmured as he began stroking the Owl’s soft feathers. “Glad you’re back.”

Myc gave a soft hooting sound in response and slowly closed his eyes.

_Warmth.  
Trust. _

_Home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. That's the Owl's story, and I thank all of you for welcoming him into your hearts - despite the silver fox' huge popularity :-)
> 
> For the sake of completeness, I'd like to point out that the ASiP transcriptions of Chapters 13+14 have been taken from this website:  
> http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html  
> http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43298.html  
> Huge thanks to Ariane DeVere for her fantastic and meticulous work!!!
> 
> And for those of you who have no idea what a big upright fiddle sounds like when played solo, here are a few examples:  
> Ofra Harnoy, Salut d’amour, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1XAPThJLQok&index=16&list=PLp5jnMa3SAtwm-8-XTgGkr4Ksy3aaFGSW  
> Anthony Leroy, Auf den Flügeln des Gesanges, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFyz3r08i8A  
> (these are pieces that Mycroft plays for Lestrade at his Exmoor home, to woo and seduce him)
> 
> Ashley Sandor Sidon, Orientale Op. 37 No. 2, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M30fy-keA58  
> (that's the one he plays when he thinks he's lost him to Ann Sedgwick)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Take the Risk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184253) by [alyxpoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe)




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